Книга - Confessions Of A Pregnant Cinderella

Confessions Of A Pregnant Cinderella
ABBY GREEN


Her scandalous announcement… …will change his life! “I’m pregnant. With your child. ” Kind-hearted waitress Skye has imagined this moment; her chance to finally tell imposing Spanish billionaire, Lazaro that their unexpected and intensely passionate night together had consequences. Yet, confronting him with the truth at an exclusive party, their still-sizzling connection hits her again like a thunderbolt. And what Lazaro says to her next is even more shocking…







Her shocking announcement will alter his life—forever!

Compassionate waitress Skye O’Hara has imagined this moment. It’s her chance to finally tell imposing Lazaro Sanchez that their unexpected and intense passion had consequences. Skye is determined to prevent her son from experiencing the chaos of her own childhood. But what can she expect from a playboy billionaire?

When she confronts him with the truth at an exclusive gala, their still-sizzling connection hits her like a thunderbolt. And what Lazaro says to her next is even more outrageous than her own confession…


Irish author ABBY GREEN ended a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com (http://www.abby-green.com) or email abbygreenauthor@gmail.com.


Also by Abby Green (#u96a9cfeb-0c82-51a0-90e7-9d1059293d68)

Awakened by Her Desert Captor

An Heir to Make a Marriage

Claimed for the De Carrillo Twins

The Virgin’s Debt to Pay

Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

An Innocent, A Seduction, A Secret

Awakened by the Scarred Italian

Brides for Billionaires collection

Married for the Tycoon’s Empire

Rulers of the Desert miniseries

A Diamond for the Sheikh’s Mistress

A Christmas Bride for the King

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

Abby Green






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08836-7

CONFESSIONS OF A PREGNANT CINDERELLA

© 2019 Abby Green

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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This is for Austin, Gary and Billy.

You guys are my heart.


Contents

Cover (#uc29c6615-1d96-5bca-8a13-524a7e6a92b1)

Back Cover Text (#uf9276f7c-b9e8-5121-88bd-fe5fe89cf90f)

About the Author (#u0fa57369-9a94-5ad2-947d-fc3846cb0cda)

Booklist (#u6a2fdc9c-b18a-5032-99e6-cdf101db1402)

Title Page (#ue7f43060-5c2b-5b71-9a2e-45047d0fa88c)

Copyright (#u5e455f44-b1f2-5637-b054-c61da0c3761c)

Note to Readers

Dedication (#u14d5f607-54ff-55fa-9cb5-9b7064c5e04c)

CHAPTER ONE (#u421c48bd-6f00-5851-b291-f5eca26876b6)

CHAPTER TWO (#ue68a3cbd-9695-5d33-8eee-1a193354aeab)

CHAPTER THREE (#u8f0780ee-f4b2-5192-9cbf-85d5b24a6686)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u96a9cfeb-0c82-51a0-90e7-9d1059293d68)


LAZARO SANCHEZ SURVEYED the glittering ballroom of one of Madrid’s most exclusive hotels. A hotel that he owned. Satisfaction and anticipation coursed through his veins. This moment…was huge. His whole life had been building to this, to standing here in front of his peers.

But they hadn’t always been his peers. These people wouldn’t have recognised him as the semi-feral teenager who’d roamed and lived on the streets. Hustling to make a few euros by washing car windows at traffic lights; showing tourists how to beat the queues into museums and galleries; eating out of bins when he couldn’t afford to buy food.

The familiar burn of injustice and rage burned low in his gut when he recalled those desperate days. He’d run away from his last foster home when the father had cornered Lazaro in the bedroom and started taking his trousers down.

Lazaro had jumped out of the first-floor window.

From the age of thirteen he’d fended for himself.

The cruel irony of it all was that Lazaro hadn’t been orphaned, or abused by his parents so badly that he’d been removed from their care, like other kids who’d ended up in the foster homes. He’d been abandoned into the system by his parents. And, actually, his father was in this very room right now. Not that he would ever look him in the eye. Or admit he was his father—even under duress.

As for his mother, he’d only ever seen her a handful of times in his life, from a distance.

The reason for that was because Lazaro Sanchez was the illegitimate result of an affair between two members of two of Spain’s oldest and most respected and revered families. The closest you could get to royalty without being royal.

The only way he’d found out about his parentage had been through a mixture of fluke and happenstance. A careless social worker had left his file unattended one day and he’d seen his birth certificate and memorised his parents’ names. When he’d investigated them afterwards nothing had come up. They were fake names.

Then, while changing foster homes at the age of about twelve, he’d been dozing in the back of the car as two social workers had driven him to the new home. He could still remember seeing one of them glance behind, to check if he was sleeping, and then, as if she hadn’t been able to sit on the information any longer, whisper to the other social worker the rumour about who his real parents were.

Lazaro had clamped his eyes shut completely and frozen solid in the back of the car. Even at that age he’d heard of the Torres family and the Salvadors. They were two of Spain’s most important and wealthy dynasties, with lineages stretching back to medieval times.

When he’d had a chance he’d looked them up for more information. And even though it had been just a rumour he’d known as soon as he’d seen a picture of his father when he’d been Lazaro’s age. They were mirror images. And he’d inherited his mother’s unusual green eyes.

He’d taken to stalking the palatial properties belonging to the Torres family and the Salvadors in an exclusive suburb of Madrid. Watching them come and go. Seeing his half-siblings. One in particular was an older boy on his father’s side—Gabriel Torres. For some reason, Lazaro had fixated on him…perhaps because they were relatively close in age.

One day he’d seen them all sitting in a restaurant in the centre of Madrid, celebrating his half-brother Gabriel’s birthday.

Lazaro had waited outside, and when they’d emerged—the women wearing designer dresses and dripping in diamonds, the men in bespoke suits—Lazaro had darted forward and planted himself in front of his father and Gabriel.

‘I’m your son!’ he’d announced, shaking with adrenalin as he’d looked up at the towering man, aware of his half-brother beside him, looking at him as if he was an alien.

It had all happened so fast. Men had appeared from nowhere and Lazaro had found himself face-down in the dirt in an alleyway beside the restaurant. His father had hauled him up by the hair and spat into his face.

‘You are no son of mine—and if you ever come near me or my family again you will pay for it.’

That was when Lazaro’s ambition had been born. The ambition to one day be in a position where he was literally touching shoulders with them. Where they would have to look him in the eye. Where he would taunt them with his presence—with the knowledge that he had thrived and survived in spite of their attempts to excise him from their family histories.

And here he was, in the same room as his father and his half-brother Gabriel—with whom he was embroiled in a bitter and ruthless battle to take over one of Madrid’s oldest indoor market buildings and redevelop it into a new space.

His half-brother Gabriel still refused to acknowledge that Lazaro could be his brother even though—

‘Lazaro?’

He looked to one side to see the reason why both his father, his half-brother and other peripheral members of both his birth families were all in the same room.

Leonora Flores de la Vega.

With her exquisitely beautiful face, long black hair, dark grey eyes and a willowy body that curved in and out in all the right places, she was arguably one of the most beautiful women in Spain.

And one of the most well-connected.

Her family might have no money—in fact that was one of the reasons for the marriage—but their name was as old and venerated as the Torres or Salvador families. And that was priceless.

Hence the reason why Lazaro wanted to marry her. It would bring him another step closer to the inner circle that had always been shut to him, no matter how many millions he’d made. It would bring him another step closer to making his family squirm. Another step closer to ultimate acceptance.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You look very fierce.’

He forced a smile and held out a hand to Leonora. She slipped her hand into his and Lazaro closed his fingers around hers. Nothing. Not even a twinge of response. But then he wasn’t marrying her for their chemistry. He was marrying her for something much more enduring. Securing his own legacy. Forcing those who would ignore him to acknowledge him and respect him. Finally.

‘Yes, fine…just a little preoccupied.’

He saw her glance across the room to someone or something, and a faint tinge of colour came into her cheeks. She bit her lip.

‘Are you okay?’ Lazaro asked.

She always seemed so composed, unruffled, it was strange to see her suddenly look a little flustered. Distracted.

She looked back at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

He tightened his fingers around hers. ‘I’m glad you agreed to marry me, Leonora. I think we can have a good marriage. I think we can be…happy.’

A shadow seemed to cross her face, and her smile faltered for a second, but then she said brightly, ‘Yes. I hope so.’

Lazaro realised at that moment that he hardly knew this woman. He’d sought her out because of who she was, and they’d dated a few times—chaste dates. He liked her. And it was no secret that her family were in dire financial straits. He’d seen an opportunity to silence the critics of his playboy reputation and move that bit closer to where he ultimately wanted to be.

When he’d suggested she marry him, and in so doing pay off her family’s debts, she’d said yes.

He let go of Leonora’s hand and slipped his arm around her back, resting a hand on her hip. An intimate move. A proprietorial move. And still nothing. Not even a trip in his pulse.

He told himself again that attraction wasn’t everything. Lust was a base emotion. No one in this milieu married for lust. He was living proof that they married for other, far more practical reasons and kept their lust hidden. Secret. He wasn’t like them. He had more control.

Suddenly his conscience pricked hard and a picture formed in his mind. A memory, to be precise. A memory that had been haunting him with increasing and irritating frequency. As if the closer he got to making a commitment to Leonora the louder his conscience got.

Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel guilty.

Don’t you? asked a snide voice. So why can’t you stop thinking about her?

‘Her’ was a woman he’d met just over three months ago. In another city. Before he’d become engaged to Leonora. A petite woman. With long, unruly red hair. Freckles covering nearly every inch of her pale skin. Small plump breasts with tight pink nipples. A surprisingly curvy body. Russet curls at the juncture of her legs. He’d spread her there, opening her up to him, her glistening folds…

‘Lazaro—’

He looked at Leonora, shocked at the vividness of that memory and the effect it was having on his body. Which was galling when the stunningly beautiful flesh-and-blood woman beside him couldn’t arouse even a heightened sense of awareness.

She was smiling, but he could see it was forced. ‘You’re hurting me.’

Instantly Lazaro became aware of his hand, digging into the flesh at her hip. He relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’

A sense of shame engulfed him. And anger. That woman had been no one. His conscience pricked. Okay, so he’d wanted her more than he could remember wanting any other woman in a long time, but it had just been a moment out of time. In another city. Where people didn’t see him and whisper behind his back.

‘Isn’t that Lazaro Sanchez? They say he used to forage in the streets for food. Didn’t he used to be in a gang?’

That woman—the stranger—hadn’t had the faintest clue who he was. And it had been refreshing. It had made the intense and immediate attraction between them even more compelling. And explosive.

She’d been a virgin. A virgin. The words resounded in his head, still having the power to shock him. He hadn’t expected that. And it had led to the most erotic experience of his life…

Leonora was handing Lazaro a glass of champagne now, and he shook his head slightly, as much to rid himself of unwanted and disturbing memories as anything else.

‘Your advisors are making motions that it’s time to make the announcement. Ready?’

Lazaro excised all thoughts, memories and images of that woman from his mind and looked into the eyes of his future wife. The woman who would open the last doors for him into a world that had been denied him from the day of his birth.

‘Yes,’ he said, clinking his glass to hers with a melodic chime. ‘Let’s do it.’






Skye O’Hara was feeling nauseous. Literally. And she also felt sick with nerves. Not a good combination. A cold clammy sweat lay over her skin, and it had only got worse since she’d slipped into the jaw-droppingly beautiful ballroom, with its gold-panelled walls and massive crystal chandeliers.

She’d never seen so many beautiful tall people in her life. Or such finery. Glittering sheaths of dresses. Tuxedoes. Acres of smooth honey-hued skin, making her feel even more pale and wan. Golden lights everywhere. It even smelled exclusive. The kind of scent that couldn’t be bottled. It was wealth.

She’d dressed in a white shirt and black skirt to try and fade in with the staff. Put her unruly hair up in a tidy bun on her head. No way would she have had the wherewithal even to remotely attempt to look like one of these people. For a start she was about a foot too small, and the only redhead in sight. And she had freckles. A physical imperfection people like this would eliminate on sight, no doubt.

She craned her head, going up on tiptoe to try and see further into the room. To see where he was.

Her hand went to her belly where the reason for much of her nausea resided.

And then she saw him in the distance. How could she not? He stood head and shoulders even above these giants. His dark blond hair was still just the right side of too long, and still messy. Stubble emphasised the hard line of his jaw. And his mouth…

She couldn’t see it from here but she could remember it. Sculpted and firm. Hot. She remembered how it had felt on her bare skin…closing over her…

A gap formed in the crowd and now she could see all of him.

Her heart pounded as she drank in every long and lean inch of his six-foot-three-inch frame. Tall and broad-shouldered. Golden. Gorgeous. The sexiest man she’d ever seen. The first man she’d ever thought of as sexy. And consequently the first man she’d ever slept with.

He was wearing a white tuxedo jacket with a white bow-tie. Black trousers. He stood out effortlessly…a little bit different from everyone else. As if he couldn’t contain some elemental part of himself even in this civilised milieu.

Elemental. That was what it had been like that night. Wild. Visceral. Unbelievable. Unforgettable.

Skye’s hand tightened on her belly. Unforgettable in more ways than one.

A woman came up to her with a stern look on her face. Staff, not a guest, wearing a black uniform dress. Just as Skye was about to panic that she’d been caught out, the woman handed her a tray full of glasses of champagne and told her to stop wasting time. Relief flooded Skye. Her disguise had worked.

She took a deep breath and started to move closer through the crowd to where he stood. Lazaro Sanchez. She’d looked him up on the internet the day after their night together—and nearly had a heart attack when she’d realised that he was a seriously wealthy and influential financier, with an extensive real-estate portfolio. A household name in his native Spain.

And he was also a renowned playboy. There had been acres of photos of him with a veritable stream of beautiful women. It had stung more than a little to know that she’d been naive enough to fall for his smooth charm. That what had happened between them must have merely been a blip in his normal routine. A forgettable night among many. And it had stung even more that she didn’t resemble any of his usual women, so evidently he’d only slept with her because she’d been a bit…different.

And now… Now he was about to announce his engagement to the most beautiful woman in the world. Skye could see her standing beside Lazaro, with his arm around her waist.

They looked good together—both tall, lean. Her dark hair was sleek and pulled back, and she wore a red strapless dress. A slim classic column that clung to every perfectly proportioned curve and oozed sophistication and elegance.

For a second Skye faltered. She put the tray down on a nearby table for fear of dropping it. Should she have come here to do this?

She lamented again the fact that she hadn’t been able to get to Lazaro before this event, but it would have been easier to get a message to the Pope. She’d been blocked and shut out at every turn.

What right did she have to interrupt this momentous moment? The announcement of his engagement to this Glamazon?

Because you’re pregnant with his baby and he needs to know, reminded a cool voice in her head.

Just then there was the sound of someone tapping on glass, which cut through the buzz of chat in the room. Everyone fell silent and turned to where Lazaro and his fiancée were standing on a raised dais.

Skye felt even more sick now. Had he been involved with her when they’d slept together three months ago? Had he known he would be getting engaged?

She saw the cordon of security men near the couple. Fearsome-looking individuals. Skye could see what would happen—they’d announce their news, and suddenly they’d be thronged, and then they’d be whisked off to some secret location.

This was her only chance to get his attention. She had to take it. She couldn’t have it on her conscience that he didn’t know she was pregnant. That their one amazing night together had had repercussions.

And his fiancée deserved to know the kind of man she was marrying, if they had already been involved while he’d been seducing Skye in another city.






Lazaro cleared his throat. He savoured the few seconds before he spoke, aware of every eye turned their way. His father, pretending he didn’t know this was his illegitimate son, about to make an announcement. His half-brother Gabriel was scowling and looking even more brooding and forbidding than he usually did.

‘Thank you all for coming here this evening…’

Lazaro looked at Leonora and smiled. She wasn’t looking at him, though, she was looking into the crowd, slightly transfixed. There was a flush in her cheeks. He exerted a tiny bit of pressure on her waist and she glanced at him and smiled. But it was strained.

Lazaro ignored the prickling sensation over his skin. Last-minute jitters.

‘I know it’s hardly a surprise to many of you, as it’s already appeared in some papers…’ here there was a ripple of laughter ‘…but it gives me great pleasure to formally announce that Leonora Flores de la Vega has consented to be my wife. Invitations to the wedding will be sent out shortly.’

Lazaro lifted his glass of champagne, about to make a toast to his future wife, when a voice shattered the expectant hush.

‘Wait! Stop!’

It took Lazaro a second to realise that people weren’t looking at them any more. They were all looking to his left-hand side at something. Or someone.

He glanced around to see that two of his security team were holding back a woman. A petite, red-haired woman. Who looked familiar. Too familiar. He noticed the details dispassionately, as shock flooded his system to see her here, not just in his memory.

Her blue eyes were huge and slightly wild-looking. Her hair was up in a bun, with tendrils of red and gold falling down around her heart-shaped face. Determined chin. Small straight nose. Full mouth currently in a thin line. White shirt…black skirt.

He could see the white of her bra under the material. The press of her breasts against the fabric. He’d cupped those breasts in his hands, rubbed his thumbs across her deeply sensitive nipples. She’d shuddered against him when he’d touched her there.

Heat flooded his body.

Suddenly the shock galvanised him into action. He let go of Leonora and made a move towards the woman, as if he knew what was about to happen and thought he could stop it. But, no. Before he could reach her, her voice rang out again—loud and clear. The fact that she spoke in Spanish was a detail he didn’t even absorb fully.

‘You need to know something. I’m pregnant. With your child.’

For a long moment nothing seemed to happen. There was a shocked stillness in the air and everyone was frozen. Even the security men holding her arms seemed to go slack.

She was looking directly at Lazaro, and suddenly it was as if everyone else had disappeared and it was just them in the room.

She said in a quieter voice, in English, ‘It’s true. I’m pregnant…and it’s yours.’

Skye O’Hara. That was her name. She’d been a waitress in the restaurant where he’d had dinner after a business meeting in Dublin. He’d noticed her as soon as he’d gone in—something about her, the way she moved and interacted with people, had caught his attention. Which was unusual, because nothing much distracted Lazaro these days. But there had been something very refreshing about her. Open. Unaffected. Natural.

She’d been dressed much as she was now. Her clothes utterly banal. Not designed in any way to entice a man. And yet she had. With her petite figure and soft curves.

She’d served him. Pulling a pen out of the bun on the top of her head, flipping over her orders pad to a new page before looking at him. And that had been the moment. Zing. Lazaro had felt it like a thunderbolt. Instant heat and sexual awareness.

And so had she, judging by the flush on her cheeks and the way her eyes had widened.

Lazaro’s razor-sharp brain kicked into gear. There were members of the press in this room. His doing. To ensure maximum coverage of his moment of triumph. If he instructed his men to kick this woman out on the street the press would hunt her down, and he could already see the headlines and the lurid sob-story.

He had no doubt she was just capitalising on the fact that she’d realised who he was. She was on the make. He needed to contain this situation, defuse it and salvage what he could of this evening.

He put down his glass and stepped down from the dais and went over to her, taking her arm in his hand. It felt very slender. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’

She went white. He ignored the prick of his conscience. He’d forgotten how petite she was.

She stuttered. ‘I came…to…to tell you… I couldn’t reach you any other way…we didn’t…you didn’t…we didn’t exchange numbers…’

He’d given her his card when he’d asked her to join him for a drink. But she’d left it in the wastebasket in the hotel room the following morning.

Her show of independence the morning after—her determination to go even after he’d offered to order up breakfast—had obviously been an act.

He could still see her, backing away in her skinny jeans and a loose jumper falling off one shoulder. Her hair down and wild. She’d looked like an art student. She’d looked thoroughly bedded. And he’d wanted her again.

He’d just come out of the shower with a towel around his waist to find her leaving. ‘Where are you going?’ he’d asked.

She’d looked up as she’d slipped on her shoes. He could still recall how her eyes had devoured him, lingering on his chest. Making him hard again.

‘I should leave… It’s okay. I know how these things go. I know this was just a one-off. You’re not from here.’ She’d waved a hand at the very rumpled bed and a flush had tinged her cheeks. ‘And I really wasn’t expecting this…’

She’d been a virgin.

Lazaro had felt a moment of panic at the thought of her slipping out through the door and never seeing her again. Impulsively he’d said, ‘Stay. I’ll order breakfast. There’s no need to rush.’

She’d looked torn for a moment. And then she’d shaken her head. ‘No, I have things to do. I have to leave.’

She’d turned around and walked to the door and then stopped and looked back over her shoulder. Her hair had been like a bright flame down her back.

‘Just…thank you. I wasn’t expecting what happened to happen. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone like you. But it was lovely.’

And then she’d slipped out through the door and Lazaro had stood there, stunned and very aroused, for long minutes. ‘It was lovely.’ Not something any woman had ever said to him before after a night of passion so intense he was surprised they hadn’t burnt the suite to ashes.

That memory mocked him now. It had all been an act. Clearly. And this had been her endgame. He’d been an idiot.

He took his hand off her arm and spoke to his men. ‘Take her to the office and keep her there until I give further instructions.’

He didn’t look at her again, just turned away towards the crowd. And, to Leonora, who was looking at him with wide eyes, cheeks leached of colour. He stepped back up onto the dais, not sure which fire to put out first.

He faced the crowd and held up his hands, forcing a smile. ‘I’m sorry for that interruption. It’s being dealt with.’

He was about to say that there were no grounds for what she’d said—‘I’m pregnant…and it’s yours’—but then he recalled that exquisite moment when he’d been poised to thrust inside her tempting body and he’d realised he wasn’t protected.

‘Are you protected?’ he’d asked her.

She’d said breathily, ‘It’s fine…please, just don’t stop.’

Self-recrimination blasted him. She could be telling the truth.

He looked at Leonora, who was backing away now, staring at him as if he was a monster. He stretched out a hand. ‘Leonora, please…let me explain.’

She stopped moving. Her face was pale. ‘Is it true?’

Lazaro couldn’t deny that it might be true, so he said nothing.

Leonora interpreted his silence. She shook her head. ‘I can’t agree to marry you—not now.’ She cast a wild-eyed look around them and then said with quiet desperation, ‘How could you do this to me? In front of all of these people?’

She turned and stepped down from the dais and all but ran to the nearest exit.

There was no sound at all for a long moment. And then came a slow hand-clap from the crowd.

Lazaro turned around to see his half-brother Gabriel moving forward through the crowd. Clapping. A smirk on his face. Lazaro’s hands bunched into fists at his sides.

‘I really didn’t expect this evening to be so entertaining, Sanchez. I have to hand it to you. If anyone knows how to make a reputation sink even lower into the gutter it’s you. But, frankly, I’ve better things to be doing than witnessing your lurid domestic dramas.’

Before Lazaro could articulate a response Gabriel strode out of the room, in the same direction as Leonora. And, as much as he wanted to go after him and punch that smirk off his face, Lazaro knew he couldn’t. Not here, not now.

He turned back to face his audience. The crowd he had assembled to share this moment of ultimate acceptance. No one would meet his eye except one man. His father, at the back of the room. He had a mocking look on his face as if to say, You tried and you failed to be one of us.

This moment, which should have been the pinnacle of his success, had turned into a farce. All because of a woman. And himself. Because for one night he’d let himself be ruled by lust and had thrown caution to the wind.

He should have known, after the life he’d lived, that he would suffer the consequences for any moment of weakness.

These people could afford to be weak. But not him. Not ever him. And he’d just proved that his desires were as base as theirs…that he didn’t, in fact, have more control.






Skye sat in a square box of a room. More like a storage cupboard, really. The burly man who had put her in here had just brought her small knapsack and her coat from where she’d left them in the cloakroom. She’d come straight here from the airport.

The adrenalin was still pumping through her system. Okay, so she’d got her message across. She hadn’t intended on the dramatics, but it had been impossible to try and contact Lazaro Sanchez from Dublin. He had more rings of security and assistants than a head of state. And at every step she’d been stonewalled.

It hadn’t helped that she’d thrown away the card he’d handed her when he’d asked her to join him for a drink. She’d not seen the point in keeping it, and hadn’t wanted to torture herself by knowing she had his phone number.

She’d been searching on the internet for another way to try and contact him when she’d seen the news that he was due to announce his engagement at an exclusive gathering at the Esmeralda Hotel—one of Madrid’s finest.

Before she’d lost her nerve she’d booked a cheap return flight. She’d travelled in her work uniform, hoping that it might help her blend in with staff. Which had worked only too well.

He was to be engaged. Yet he’d slept with her.

She’d always thought she was a good judge of character, but evidently lust had rewired her normal instincts that night three months ago.

He’d asked her to stay for breakfast the following morning and she’d been so tempted. He’d been standing there in nothing but a short towel. Massive chest bare and still damp from the shower. Dark hair dusting his pectorals and then narrowing into a line that dissected his six-pack before disappearing under the towel.

Skye stood up, suddenly restless. And hot. Thankfully the nausea had subsided slightly. Her morning sickness was acute at the moment, and mainly in the early part of the day, but the doctor had told her it should subside soon. If she was lucky.

Pregnant. She stopped pacing and put her hand on her belly.

She’d tried to contact her mother to no avail. She was somewhere in India at an ashram, with little or no communications. Not an unusual scenario. But even without her mother’s advice Skye hadn’t felt a moment’s hesitation about keeping the baby.

Even though, she’d always wanted a different life for herself than she’d had as a child. Being dragged all around Europe as her mother had followed one whim after another. Or one lover after another. She’d had Skye when she was eighteen, and most of the time Skye had felt more like the adult than her bohemian but very lovable mother. Yet here she was, only a few years older than her mother had been, and quite possibly about to become a single mother too.

She’d always vowed that if and when she had children she would be in a committed relationship and their existence wouldn’t be rootless. It would be secure and stable.

Suddenly the door opened again and Skye whirled around, her heart jumping into her throat. But it wasn’t him—it was the burly security guard.

‘You can come with me now.’

As much as Skye might have preferred not to go, she knew she had to see this through.

The man led her to a staff elevator and they ascended to the top floor. The doors opened onto an unremarkable corridor and the guard opened an unremarkable door. He led her into a small utilitarian kitchen and then into a very plush suite, with jaw-dropping floor-to-ceiling windows and views over Madrid.

This must be the penthouse suite, and she’d just been brought through the service kitchen.

Her face grew hot with humiliation.

The man led her to a vast open-plan space, with couches dotted around glass coffee tables. Vast canvases of modern art hung on walls. Low lighting imbued the space with golden light but made it no less intimidating.

And there he was. With his back to her. No jacket. Just his shirt and trousers.

He turned around, but Skye couldn’t see his expression from where she was. Probably a good thing. She could see that his top shirt button was open and his bow-tie hung askew, as if pulled apart roughly.

He dismissed the guard with a few curt words and Skye heard the door snick shut behind her.

And then, in a lethally soft voice which was worse than if he’d shouted at her, he said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’




CHAPTER TWO (#u96a9cfeb-0c82-51a0-90e7-9d1059293d68)


SKYE DID HER best not to show how intimidated she was. She walked further into the room, even though her legs felt suspiciously rubbery.

Lazaro Sanchez looked unbelievably tall and imposing. He fitted the vast space around him and the spectacular views of night-time Madrid through the windows.

Had his shoulders always been so broad? His legs so long?

She could see that he was furious. Livid. A million miles from the charming urbane man who had seduced her that night.

You were a very active participant, pointed out a snarky voice in her head.

She could see a muscle pop in his jaw, as if he was gritting it. But in spite of his palpable anger she could still feel his affect on her. As if a million nerve-endings were firing to life. Her whole body humming with awareness. Liquid electricity running through her veins.

When she’d met him in the bar of that Dublin hotel after he’d issued her an invitation to join him, she’d said, ‘I don’t do this sort of thing…meet random men in bars. And I haven’t come here for something…anything…’ She’d blushed profusely, feeling as gauche as a sixteen-year-old.

He’d just smiled sexily and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Let’s just have a drink, hmm?’

That felt like a very long time ago now.

She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry…about downstairs. I wouldn’t have done it like that if I’d been able to contact you through normal channels. I did try calling your offices—several of them, in fact—but no one would pass on a message. Not when I said it was personal.’

‘Not good enough.’ He folded his arms.

Skye flushed. ‘When I read the news about your engagement announcement, I thought it would be the best opportunity to get close enough to tell you.’

He arched a brow. ‘How convenient that this opportunity also maximised your impact by ensuring you’d be splashed all over the tabloids.’

Skye frowned. ‘Tabloids?’

Lazaro’s mouth thinned. ‘Don’t pretend ignorance now, after that stunt. You knew damn well the press would be there.’

Her conscience pricked when she thought of the look of horror and shock on his fiancée’s face. ‘I thought… I made a judgement that the only way I’d get your attention would be to do…what I did.’

Lazaro was grim. ‘Well, you have my attention. You assured me after our night together that you understood “how these things go”. Were you lying?’

‘No.’ Skye choked out, but her conscience pricked.

She could recall how tempted she’d been to indulge the fantasy and stay a little longer the following morning. But the memory of her mother falling in and out of lust and love had come back to haunt her, and Skye had been too terrified to give in to the urge to linger, when everyone knew one-night stands never went anywhere.

‘I meant what I said that morning. Obviously I wasn’t aware that…that something had happened.’

Namely, a baby.

Now he sounded accusing. ‘I asked if you were protected and you said, “It’s fine”. You lied.’

Skye bit her lip. All she could remember was the desperation she’d felt in that moment for him to join their bodies. For him not to stop. She’d never been so desperate for anything in her life. But, even so, she hadn’t completely lost her mind.

She shook her head. ‘I really did think it would be okay. I thought I was at a safe place in my cycle.’

He made a dismissive noise. ‘How do I even know you’re pregnant? You don’t look pregnant.’

Skye didn’t know whether to be flattered or dismayed that her growing belly wasn’t obvious. She put her free hand there. ‘I am pregnant. I had my three-month scan last week, to confirm that everything was okay. That’s why I waited till now… Sometimes things happen…’

There was a heavy silence as he digested that, and then he said, ‘How can you be certain I’m the father?’

Skye was immediately indignant. ‘I’ve had sex once—with you. No one else.’






They’d had sex twice that night, actually. But Lazaro wasn’t about to issue that reminder, because those X-rated memories were far too vivid and recent as it was.

He saw a dull flush rise up under her pale skin and felt a corresponding jump in his pulse. His blood was running hot, but he told himself it was anger, not lust.

He looked at the small pale hand that rested over her still flat belly. It was almost impossible to accept the revelation that she was pregnant. With his child.

As someone who had been abandoned at birth by his own parents, and who had been thrown around the foster care system most of his young life, he had a jaundiced view of the bond between parents and children to say the least. And yet the thought of her having that scan without him made him feel disturbingly conflicted. As if he’d missed out on something.

He’d always vowed that if he did have children he would do his best by them and not abandon them. He would give them a better life than he had known. But he certainly hadn’t expected to have to think about it yet.

Even with Leonora he would have expected at least a few years to elapse before they talked about children.

He was still reeling from what had happened. The sudden and swift fall from grace.

Ha! sneered an inner voice. He’d come close to grace—that was all. Maybe it was something that would elude him for ever. Like the ultimate acceptance he craved.

He’d gone after Leonora but she’d disappeared, and he’d known it would be futile anyway. She’d told him it was over, and in her world that kind of public humiliation couldn’t be forgiven. It really was over. And so he’d come up here. To try and deal with the situation. With her.

Skye put her bag and coat down at her feet. She straightened up and her expression was contrite. Before he could stop himself Lazaro was struck again by her natural beauty. The scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Innocent.

She said, ‘Look, I promise I didn’t intend to tell you like this. I really believed it was the only way. I didn’t mean to upset your fiancée.’

Lazaro didn’t believe this faux sincerity for a second. ‘She’s not my fiancée any more. The engagement is over.’

Skye seemed to go even paler. ‘If she loves you then maybe you can work this out—’

Lazaro emitted an involuntary laugh and held up a hand, stopping her words. ‘Love? There is no such thing as love. We weren’t marrying for love. That’s not how this works.’

Skye looked genuinely perplexed. ‘Then what were you marrying for?’

He shrugged minutely, this line of questioning making him uncomfortable. ‘Because it made sense. Because she would have helped me to get where I need to be and I would have helped her.’

‘That sounds so…cold.’

‘I would have said efficient, myself. Marriages based on such nebulous notions as love rarely last.’

Hesitantly she asked, ‘Were you together when we…met?’

‘No. It happened…just afterwards.’

Lazaro felt even more uncomfortable when he recalled how the intensity of his experience with Skye had left him feeling hungry for more, but also very wary. He was not looking for grand passion in his life. He was looking for acceptance and respect. And he needed a woman who would help him achieve it. A woman from his father’s world and the right side of it.

Leonora Flores de la Vega had already been on his radar—he’d seen her at a few events and had always been intrigued by her aloof manner. The way she always seemed slightly apart from the crowd. It had resonated with something inside him—perhaps the part that was still ostracised despite his success.

But he had to concede now that meeting Skye had spurred him on to ask Leonora out. As if that night with Skye had spooked him. Made him realise that he had a voracious hunger inside him that he’d never acknowledged before. He’d wanted to forget that he’d acted totally out of character for a moment. Put their extraordinary chemistry down to a fluke happenstance.

But it hadn’t been a fluke because he could feel it again now. An inexorable pull to this woman. A sizzling in his blood. A growing urgency to touch her again. Damn her.

‘Oh.’

Skye looked away for a moment and the irritation he was feeling at this woman’s effect on him showed in his curt response. ‘What does that mean? Oh.’

With visible reluctance she looked at him again. ‘Well… I’m very different to her. You looked good together. I can see why you chose her to be your wife.’

It was as if she could see into his mind. His skin prickled. She was right. Skye O’Hara couldn’t be more different from the very tall and svelte Leonora. But her petite curvy body and fresh-faced prettiness had a far earthier appeal to his libido than Leonora’s cool elegance. Leonora had never connected with that part of him.

In fact Skye was like no other woman he’d ever been with, and yet she’d been the one with whom he’d connected most viscerally.

She said, ‘Well, maybe this has done her a favour. Everyone deserves to be loved.’

Inexplicably, Lazaro felt an ache deep inside him. He quashed it brutally. ‘Don’t be so ridiculously sentimental. You caused this to happen by interrupting a private and exclusive gathering.’

‘Not that private or exclusive if the press were there,’ she pointed out.

Lazaro ground his teeth. ‘We are not here to debate the issue.’

She bent down then, and picked up her bag and coat. ‘No, we’re not. I came to tell you that I’m pregnant, and now that I have I’ll leave.’

She moved as if to walk out and then stopped, looking around at the maze of doors leading off in different directions.

She turned around, sheepish. ‘Can you tell me the way out, please?’

Lazaro shook his head, as much in negation of her question as to check if he was hearing her correctly. But she looked deadly serious.

Remembering how quickly she’d slipped out of his grasp once before, he went over and caught her arm, leading her over to a sofa, saying grimly, ‘You don’t get to deliver a bombshell, wreck my engagement and then walk out the door like nothing’s happened. Sit down. You’re not going anywhere.’






Skye should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. Of course a man like Lazaro Sanchez—so important that it was impossible to get in touch with him like any normal mortal—wouldn’t just let this go. And she had to concede that this had to be a huge shock for him. As much as it had been for her, and she’d had three months to absorb it now.

As if it was paining him to ask, he said, ‘Do you want something? Tea? Coffee?’

Skye appreciated the fact that he patently didn’t want her there but was being forced to be civil. ‘Maybe a glass of water?’

She was also starving. This was usually the best time of day for her to eat, when she could keep it down, but she didn’t think Lazaro was about to order her a club sandwich and fries—her current craving.

He came back from the drinks cabinet and handed her a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully. He had a glass of something for himself that looked like brandy or whisky.

He went and stood in front of one of the windows and Skye felt awed. He really did look like a titan. Master of his universe.

‘You must have known who I was,’ he said.

Skye looked at his back. ‘Excuse me?’

He turned around. ‘You knew who I was and you targeted me.’

Skye stood up, incensed, water splashing unnoticed from her glass to the rug on the floor. ‘I beg your pardon? You walked into my restaurant and sat in my section.’

Now he flushed, and a bolt of heat went straight to Skye’s groin because it reminded her of his flushed face after they’d made love. He’d looked so…sexy.

She sat back down again. ‘You didn’t tell me your name until you gave me your card and asked me to meet you at your hotel.’ She winced inwardly. It sounded so sordid when she said it like that.

‘You would have had time to look me up then—maybe that’s why you decided to meet me…when you knew it was worth it.’

‘Maybe I didn’t look you up,’ Skye shot back. ‘Maybe I decided to go because you were the sexiest man I’d ever met and I knew if I didn’t go I’d regret it.’

She stopped and bit her lip, aghast at what had just tumbled out of her mouth.

She lifted her chin. ‘I will admit that I looked you up the following day. And then I realised that you were…someone.’

It was a ridiculously ineffectual way to describe a man who had become a self-made millionaire by the time he was twenty-five after setting up his own hedge fund. He’d since become a billionaire, by diversifying into the real estate market. His signature move was buying up old decrepit buildings in up-and-coming areas and restoring them.

‘So that’s when you decided to take advantage of the situation?’

Skye stood up again. ‘Unbelievable as it might seem to you, my life plan wasn’t actually to get pregnant at the age of twenty-two.’

‘Oh? And what was it then? To become the manager of that restaurant?’

‘That’s not fair. You have no idea who I am or what I want.’

Lazaro took a step towards her and said with an infuriatingly smug tone, ‘On the contrary. I think we established pretty effectively what you wanted that night.’

Skye’s cheeks were burning now, her hand gripping the glass hard. ‘There were two of us in that room, and as I recall it any wanting was pretty mutual.’

He gritted his jaw at that. ‘Why did you really come?’

‘To tell you. Don’t you want to know that you’re going to be a father?’

He studied her for such a long moment that Skye fought not to squirm, and then he shook his head.

‘You’re not just here to impart this news out of the goodness of your heart.’

Skye struggled to hold on to her temper. ‘You are being incredibly negative. Would you really have preferred that I didn’t tell you? That you had a child out in the world that you knew nothing about?’

To her surprise he blanched slightly at that, and then his face became shuttered.

‘If you are pregnant, and if the baby is mine, then of course I want to know about it. I’ll admit it’s not something I was prepared to deal with quite yet, but no child of mine will want for the lack of a father.’

His eyes glowed with an intensity that caught at Skye inside. She realised then that she hadn’t seen anything about his parents in the information she’d found about him online, and she wondered about that now. But before she could say anything else a wave of dizziness took her by surprise and she swayed on the spot.

Instantly he was at her side, taking the glass out of her grip, a hand around her arm. ‘What is it? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

She was trembling. ‘I think I need to eat something…’

‘When was the last time you ate?’

Skye just wanted to sit down. ‘Breakfast?’

If you could call a banana and a croissant that had later made its reappearance in the airport toilet breakfast.

Lazaro made a rude sound and led Skye over to a chair to sit down. He handed her the water. ‘What do you want to eat?’

She hated being weak and vulnerable like this. She’d wanted to come and face Lazaro, give him the news and then walk away with her head held high, knowing she’d done the right thing.

‘Maybe a sandwich? And some fries?’

He went over to a phone and made a call.

When he came back Skye said, ‘Thank you. I’m sorry. I really didn’t intend to cause such an upset and I didn’t intend taking up your time like this.’

He looked at her and put his hands on his hips—which only drew Skye’s attention to that lean waist.

‘So you were going to come, drop your bombshell and then leave?’

Skye winced at his thunderous expression. ‘I just wanted to let you know. I don’t expect anything from you. Maybe once the news has died down you can repair things with your fiancée…’ She saw his expression darken even more and corrected herself. ‘Sorry, ex-fiancée.’

He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. ‘I told you—Leonora won’t have anything to do with me after this.’

In fairness, Skye had to admit she had looked like a nice person. A person who didn’t deserve to be upset in public like that.

Her insides cramped with remorse. She hadn’t handled this very well at all.

Just then a chiming sound rang through the room, and Lazaro sent her a dark look before he went to the door. He came back with a tray. On it was a plate covered with a silver dome.

‘Come into the kitchen.’

Skye dutifully followed Lazaro, trying not to notice the sexy athleticism of his stride. Or feel hurt that he was going to take her into that utilitarian kitchen to eat—probably for fear she’d drop crumbs all over his pristine suite.

He must have been staying here in order to make the announcement. Perhaps he’d even planned on spending the night here with his fiancée. Celebrating their engagement. It was certainly romantic enough, with its stunning views of Madrid laid out around it.

Then Skye stopped on the threshold of a kitchen she hadn’t seen before. It certainly wasn’t the one she’d been led through. This one was massive, and had state-of-the-art appliances and a sleek modern finish. There was a dining table and chairs by one window. Lazaro was putting the tray down and taking off the silver dome to reveal a very fancy-looking sandwich and fries.

Her mouth watered. She went over and sat down.

‘I thought I came up through the kitchen?’

Lazaro looked slightly discomfited. ‘I asked them to bring you up that way to avoid the paparazzi.’

‘Oh.’






She said ‘oh’ a lot. Lazaro watched, half-fascinated, as Skye tucked into the sandwich and fries with little self-consciousness. Watching a woman eat, he realised, felt like a curiously intimate thing to do. Especially when most of the women he spent time with chased a lettuce leaf around their plates.

He got another glass of sparkling water and put it down on the table. She glanced at him and wiped her mouth. Her cheeks were tinged pink as she said thank you.

They’d gone pink like that when their eyes had met in that small restaurant near his hotel in Dublin. And they’d gone even pinker when he’d asked to her join him there for a nightcap when she finished work.

She’d said Oh then too.

‘Oh… Wow… I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t know you. You could be anyone.’

He’d handed her a card from his jacket pocket. A platinum-embossed card, with his name and contact details. He’d said, ‘It’s not proof I’m not a serial killer, but I can assure you I’m not. I’m just asking you to meet me for a drink at the bar…a chance to get to know one another a little better.’

She’d looked at him with those huge blue eyes that seemed to hide nothing. ‘But what’s the point?’ she’d asked.

Lazaro had surprised himself by saying, ‘Haven’t you ever done anything totally spontaneous for no good reason but just because you want to?’

He’d also surprised himself with how much he’d wanted her to say yes. He’d expected her to jump at the invitation—as most women would—but she’d seemed genuinely torn.

Eventually she’d said, ‘Okay…maybe.’

And so he’d sat in that hotel bar, waiting for a woman. And for the first and only time in his life he hadn’t known if she’d show up.

And then she had.

He could still recall seeing her standing in the doorway, in skinny jeans and that tatty jumper, half-falling off her shoulder. Holding a slouchy bag. It should have been the moment he’d realised he’d gone a bit crazy, but her long red hair had been down, and tumbling wildly over one shoulder, and an intense hunger had bitten into him so acutely that he hadn’t even been able to stand to greet her.

‘Thank you for that.’

Lazaro broke out of his reverie and saw Skye pushing the now empty plate away from her. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman actually finish her food.

‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

She went pinker and avoided his eye. ‘I hadn’t actually got as far as booking anywhere. I saw a hostel at the train station when I came in from the airport, I’m sure I can get a room there.’

Lazaro’s gaze narrowed on her, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘You didn’t plan on staying and you’ve booked no accommodation? Did you even book a return flight? Or were you hoping that perhaps this little stunt might induce me to take you into my bed again, where you could ensure you became pregnant?’






Skye had been avoiding his eye, embarrassed at having been exposed in her lack of planning for this, but now her head snapped around so quickly she almost got whiplash.

For a long moment she couldn’t speak, she was so incensed. And then she stood up, trembling with emotion. ‘You are the most unbelievably cynical person I’ve ever met. I’m not here to fleece you, or to seduce you, Lazaro. I couldn’t care less about your wealth or your fancy hotel suite—’

‘Apartment.’

‘What?’

‘This is my apartment. I own the hotel.’

‘Oh.’

He owns the hotel. Of course he does.

Suddenly feeling overwhelmed, Skye made a move back to the living area, searching for her bag and coat.

‘Where are you going?’

She found them and picked them up. She turned around. ‘I’m going to go and find somewhere to stay. My return flight is early in the morning—because, as I told you, I’d just planned on giving you this information. Not staying. Leaving. Which I’m going to do now. Goodbye, Lazaro.’

Before she could turn to go Lazaro came and stood in front of her. He was shaking his head.

‘You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here tonight and then we’ll discuss where to go from here tomorrow.’

Skye’s head was feeling fuzzy from tiredness. ‘But I’m due at work tomorrow night…’

‘If you are pregnant with my child—and let’s say I give you the benefit of the doubt until we can prove the baby is mine with a DNA test—then you’ll be staying right here in Spain.’

Skye’s mouth opened and closed. Opened again. ‘That’s crazy. You can’t order me to stay here.’

‘If you’re carrying my child, as you claim you are, then, yes, I have a right to be involved in its future—and in yours too.’

Skye felt panicky. ‘In its future. When he or she is born. Anything could happen between now and then.’

‘And in the meantime you’re going to run yourself ragged waiting on tables, staying in hostels and living in God knows what kind of place.’ He frowned. ‘Where do you live?’

Skye felt defensive. ‘In a perfectly nice basement apartment in Dublin.’

She felt guilty when she thought of the mould on the damp walls of her bedroom. And the malfunctioning gas cooker. And the fact that her area turned into a kind of war zone at night. But she was fine. They knew her face so they left her alone.

Lazaro made a sound as if he could read her thoughts. ‘If you’re working as a waitress then I know what kind of place and area you can afford, and I don’t want the mother of my child putting herself or my child at risk.’

Skye’s hand automatically went to her belly. ‘I would never do that.’

She had to admit to herself, though, that she had had misgivings about how she would cope on her tiny salary and in a cold and damp apartment.

He took her bag and coat out of her hands before she could stop him. ‘You’ll stay here this evening and tomorrow we’ll go to see my physician and confirm your pregnancy. Then we’ll have another discussion.’

Anger and a feeling of impotency made Skye say, ‘You can’t just upend my life like this. I have a job. A home. A life.’

He arched a brow. ‘I can’t upend your life? Like you just upended mine?’




CHAPTER THREE (#u96a9cfeb-0c82-51a0-90e7-9d1059293d68)


SKYE HAD HAD no answer to Lazaro’s killer response. It had shut down her anger and her justification for leaving because she had done that. She had come here and created this situation and now she had to deal with it.

So she’d agreed to stay. For now.

He’d shown her into a huge bedroom and said, ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

For a while she was too afraid to move in case she left a mark on the pristine carpet, which felt like walking on a cloud, or the silk upholstery of the furniture. Everything was in tones of white and light grey. Sleek and modern lines. Elegant and classic.

She looked at the huge bed warily, but eventually the feeling of grime on her skin got to her and she realised she couldn’t risk getting the sheets dirty.

She went into the bathroom and gasped. It was almost as big as the bedroom. With a slate wet room shower and bathtub big enough for a dozen people. Two sinks. Its soft lighting was very kind to her, making her look less washed out than she felt. But she knew it was just an illusion.

She stripped off and stepped under the shower, almost groaning out loud as the powerful jets of warm water pummelled her skin. Her hair usually took an age to dry, but she couldn’t resist the urge to clean that too, massaging her scalp with the most delicious-smelling shampoo.

Afterwards she went back into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around her head and a voluminous terry cloth robe dwarfing her body. She was tired, but too restless to sleep after everything that had happened, so she curled up in a large armchair and looked out over the view of Madrid under a starry sky.

She wondered if Lazaro was devastated by losing his fiancée. He hadn’t seemed too upset about it. But then he’d said their marriage hadn’t been based on love. He appeared to have an aversion even to the notion of love.

And she hated to admit that a small part of her had been relieved to hear that his relationship with his fiancée hadn’t been a love match.

The night she’d spent with Lazaro had been so…cataclysmic. It had touched Skye emotionally far more than she liked to admit. The morning after she’d wanted to stay more than anything. But she’d known it would only be prolonging the inevitable. Even before she’d known the extent of who he was she had known that Lazaro Sanchez wasn’t a man who struck up a relationship with a waitress after a one-night stand. It might have gone into a two-night stand, but that would have been it.

Anxiety knotted her belly and she had to consciously breathe in and out to unravel the tension. Her mother’s voice came into her head. ‘We’re human beings, Skye, not human doings. All you can do is focus on the present moment. Nothing else exists.’

Her mother would always smile radiantly at that, and her New Age pronouncement would usually be followed by one of her customary spur-of-the moment decisions to move city/country/job. Basically, as soon as somewhere had just started to feel like home they’d moved.

But in one way she was right. Skye couldn’t do much right now but submit to Lazaro Sanchez’s decree. He was the father of her baby. Even if he didn’t believe her.

He could have thrown you out on her ear and refused to listen to you, an inner voice pointed out.

Okay, so she hadn’t exactly given him much choice, but it had been her only option. And, even though she wished there had been some more discreet way of doing things, she didn’t regret informing him that he was going to become a father.

She’d never had the chance to know her own father. It was the one thing her mother had always been uptight about—Skye’s father’s identity. She’d eventually revealed the truth that she wasn’t sure who her father was. She’d been at a party…there had been two guys…she didn’t even remember their names…

Skye’s mother had actually come from a very wealthy background, but she’d been rebellious and artistic. Her family had cut her off after news of her pregnancy had emerged, and that was when she’d taken up the life of a hippy nomad. Her pride had refused to let her contact her family again. Pride and—as Skye had realised over the years—immense hurt that she’d been rejected by them.

Family. Skye sighed deeply. She had a very jaundiced view of family, considering the way her mother’s had treated her, and yet that had never stopped her dreaming about a family of her own. A family that was rooted in one place. Secure. Stable.

When she’d found out she was pregnant, as much as the timing was seriously off, she’d felt a huge urge to nest. Put down roots. And telling Lazaro Sanchez about his child had been a part of that. She wanted to be settled when she had this baby, and to have some kind of communication with Lazaro so that her child would grow up knowing where it was from and who its parents were.

She wanted her child to see the world, as she had, but with the knowledge that he or she always had a home to return to.

Skye felt a wave of weariness steal over her. She let her head drop back into the deep cushions and closed her eyes. She’d snooze, just for a minute, and then she’d get up and sort out her few paltry belongings.






Lazaro stood looking down at the sleeping woman for a long moment. He’d wanted to check that she was okay, but she hadn’t answered his knock on the door so he’d opened it. He hadn’t seen her immediately and for a moment had thought she’d gone—back the way she’d been brought in. Through the service entrance.

He hadn’t liked the spurt of panic…

But then he’d seen her. Curled up. Dwarfed by the chair. Fast asleep.

Her head was resting on her shoulder. The towel on her head was almost falling off. He couldn’t deny how she made him feel. Hot. Aching. Even now, when she was all but covered up. He just had to imagine her naked under the shower and his body went into meltdown.

She also made him feel livid, for appearing like a genie to rob him of his moment.

Basta! He bent down and slid his arms under her legs and her back, lifting her up. She didn’t even stir, she was so deeply asleep. She was light. Fragile.

Pregnant.

When Lazaro put her down on the bed the towel slid off and her damp hair fell in a sprawl around her head, a splash of red against the white linen. She looked utterly innocent and guileless.

His conscience pricked. She had been innocent—a virgin. Would she have jumped into bed with someone else so quickly?

Everything inside him rejected the notion.

When Skye had said she’d struggled to get hold of him he’d had to concede that perhaps she was telling the truth. He recalled seeing his card in the bin of that hotel suite, and he could remember the sensation of disbelief. No woman—ever—had missed an opportunity to gain access to Lazaro’s inner circle.

But he did have a rule that no one unknown was allowed to contact him. Especially women. She would have been an unknown to everyone else but him. No one knew about that night. Because he had been in Dublin. He wasn’t on the paparazzi’s radar there.

He remembered something else from that night. When they’d sat down for a drink in his hotel bar he’d asked her why she’d decided to come.

She’d looked at him a little embarrassed, but also with something almost defiant, and said, ‘Because I’ve never met anyone like you. And you’re right. Sometimes it’s good to be a little spontaneous.’

He’d looked back at her. ‘You’re refreshingly honest.’

She’d frowned at him as if he was crazy. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? What do I have to hide?’

Something heavy settled in Lazaro’s gut. The truth was that she didn’t come from his world, where cynicism and mistrust went hand in hand. She was most likely telling the truth. But still, he’d be a fool not to confirm it for himself. And he’d be an even bigger fool to throw all caution to the wind and assume she wasn’t up to something just because of a feeling in his gut.






When Skye woke the following morning she was disorientated. She was in the most comfortable bed she’d ever slept in—except she couldn’t remember falling asleep in it… Because she hadn’t. She’d fallen asleep in a chair.

She came up on her elbows and felt the towel behind her on the pillow. She groaned. Her hair would be a disaster today. And how had she ended up in bed? She was under the covers, but still wearing the robe…

Her face grew hot at the thought of Lazaro carrying her to the bed. But he must have. He must have come in. And watched her sleeping. And then he’d picked her up.

Her insides knotted, and not entirely with anxiety. With awareness.

She couldn’t hear any sounds coming from outside the bedroom but the sun was up. She got up, and after a quick wash, and trying to tame her hair as much as possible, she dressed and took a deep breath before venturing out into the suite—the apartment.

She found Lazaro in the formal dining room. He was sitting at one end of a long table with breakfast laid out around him and a stack of papers. His legs were stretched out under the table and he was dressed in a blue pinstripe shirt and dark trousers. Hair damp from the shower. Jaw clean-shaven.

And she felt a tug of desire deep in her belly.

He looked up, just as a woman Skye hadn’t seen before bustled into the room, carrying what looked like a coffee jug.

She greeted Skye. ‘Buenos dias.’

Skye murmured hello back and went over to the table, feeling shy and self-conscious in the only change of clothes she’d brought with her—her habitual uniform of jeans and a loose top…sneakers. She’d always veered towards a tomboyish style, but she’d never been so aware of it than now, when she was in front of this man.

The woman—his housekeeper?—left them alone again. Lazaro put down the paper he was reading and raked her up and down with those vivid green eyes, heightening her sense of exposure.

‘No fake waitress outfit today?’

Skye blushed guiltily. ‘I wore my work clothes as I figured they might help me blend in with the staff at the hotel.’

It wasn’t as if she could have hoped to blend in with the guests!

Lazaro made a rude sound which only reminded her of the audacity of her actions and the dramatic consequences. Suddenly she felt sick.

She gripped the back of a chair. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry about how it happened.’

Lazaro frowned. ‘What’s wrong? You’ve gone white.’

The dreaded nausea was rising. Skye managed to garble something unintelligible before she sprinted from the room, back to her bathroom, and made the toilet just in time.

She groaned as she sensed a presence hovering nearby. ‘Leave me alone, please. It’s fine. It’s just morning sickness.’

He didn’t leave. ‘You have this every day?’ He sounded horrified.

Skye might have laughed if she’d been able to. She literally couldn’t possibly reach any lower in Lazaro Sanchez’s eyes right now, with her head inside a toilet bowl. Whatever desire he’d felt for her would be well and truly gone after this little episode.

To her relief the sickness soon dissipated and a damp facecloth came into her vision. She took it. It was warm. She wiped her face and pulled herself up, going to the sink to rinse her mouth out.

She didn’t want to see herself in the mirror, knowing just how wan she’d look.

Lazaro was standing in the doorway looking slightly shell-shocked.

‘I’m sorry about that. I’ve no control over when it comes, but it passes pretty quickly. And the doctor said it shouldn’t last into the next trimester.’

Lazaro still looked shocked, so she said, ‘It’s a perfectly normal part of pregnancy.’

‘Do you think you can eat something?’

Skye nodded. That was the thing. Not long after her morning sickness she was usually ravenous.

She followed him back into the dining room and he said something to the housekeeper, who sent Skye a sympathetic look before disappearing again.

Skye sat down and saw her passport was on the table. She picked it up and looked at Lazaro accusingly. ‘What are you doing with my passport?’

He poured himself some coffee, and her, and then looked at her, totally unrepentant. ‘Skye Blossom O’Hara?’

Skye flushed and reluctantly divulged, ‘My mother was…is…a bit of a hippy. Hence Skye and Blossom.’

‘Is she in Ireland?’

Skye shook her head and took a sip of the strong coffee, relishing its warmth soothing her insides. ‘She’s in India. In an ashram. I haven’t managed to track her down and let her know about the baby yet.’

The housekeeper returned at that moment, with a selection of breads, eggs and pastries, and Skye smiled her thanks, relieved that Lazaro hadn’t asked about her father. When she glanced at him, though, he was looking at her with an arrested expression on his face.





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