Pregnant princess in man.., p.1
Pregnant Princess in Manhattan, page 1
“Our situation was a one-night stand,” he said, and she leaned forward, lifting a finger to her lips.
“Please, remember there are people everywhere.”
Rocco’s eyes flared against hers, silently arguing, then he dropped his head once in silent acknowledgment.
“Are one-night stands forbidden to princesses?” he asked softly, and she bristled, because she hadn’t expected the slightly mocking tone from him. She tilted her face sideways, regaining her composure. “Is that why you were so inexperienced, Charlotte?”
She liked that even now he didn’t use her title. “My experience is irrelevant.”
“Not to me.”
“To this conversation.”
“What conversation, exactly?”
“I’m trying to explain—”
“But you’re not. Why did you call me?”
She focused on a point beyond his shoulder. “That night...” she said softly, forcing her eyes back to his. “Despite the fact we...” She paused again, the intimate conversation almost impossible to broach.
His nostrils flared as he expelled a rapid breath, his impatience obvious.
“I’m pregnant.” Her voice shook only the slightest bit. “And you’re the father.”
Clare Connelly was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Harlequin book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero, and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Harlequin novels continue to be her favorite-ever books. Writing for Harlequin Presents is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or on her Facebook page.
Books by Clare Connelly
Harlequin Presents
My Forbidden Royal Fling
Crowned for His Desert Twins
Emergency Marriage to the Greek
Passionately Ever After...
Cinderella in the Billionaire’s Castle
Signed, Sealed...Seduced
Cinderella’s Night in Venice
The Cinderella Sisters
Vows on the Virgin’s Terms
Forbidden Nights in Barcelona
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Clare Connelly
Pregnant Princess in Manhattan
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EXCERPT FROM THE MAID THE GREEK MARRIED BY JACKIE ASHENDEN
PROLOGUE
‘LOOK AT THIS, caro mio.’
Rocco Santinova, only nine but tall for his age, with inquisitive eyes and a serious face, moved closer to his mother, craning to see in the department-store window, past the small crowd of well-dressed shoppers. A Christmas scene was on display: tall, craggy, snow-capped mountains were painted as the backdrop, and in the foreground there were small fir trees, models of children ice skating and Alpine homes with their trademark A-frame roofs.
‘It’s just like where I grew up,’ she murmured, but in a strange, faraway manner, as though she wasn’t really talking to him at all. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ She asked the question in her native Italian and Rocco nodded.
‘Si, Mama.’
When she turned to face him, tears moistened her eyes. ‘I want to take you there one day. We’ll go skiing down a hill, just like that one.’
Rocco’s heart kicked up a notch. The hill she pointed to was a sheer mountain face. Adrenaline was a spike in his blood. He looked at the hill and saw a challenge: he wanted to conquer it.
‘One day, we’ll go home.’
The words were bold but there was ambivalence in the sentiment, an ambivalence Rocco didn’t properly understand. His mother spoke of ‘home’ often. Rocco didn’t know how to tell her that New York had become home to him. It felt like a betrayal, and so he’d said nothing. But the truth was, these metallic skyscrapers were his version of those craggy mountains, they were his challenge—one day, he’d own one. He swore it.
‘In my village, there’s a restaurant, right in the centre, that makes the best food you could imagine. I used to go there every Sunday, after church.’
His mother’s smile was wistful and despite being young—too young to understand the emotion that made his tummy ache—he knew he didn’t like it. He didn’t like seeing his mother sad.
He looked up at her; she was staring at the village scene so intently, her eyes misted over, so he asked, ‘What else will we do?’
It seemed to rouse her. She looked down at Rocco, a strange smile on her lips. ‘There are the most beautiful carol singers in the village each night. We’ll buy hot chocolate and sit and listen to them for hours. Just like I did when I was a girl.’
She took his hand in hers, the calluses in her palm from the grip of her mop making young Rocco’s heart twist painfully. He was powerless to address his mother’s worries, powerless to fix them. Powerless to do anything but listen and nod.
She began to walk them away from the department store, towards the subway. But all the way she spoke of her village, describing it in great detail for Rocco, so that by the time they boarded the dingy train to their tiny Brooklyn apartment, he had sworn that he would take his mother home one day. She was the only family he had, it was the two of them against the world, and, the nine-year-old believed, it always would be.
He couldn’t have known that only ten years later he’d be utterly alone, unloved and deserted, and that the life he’d sworn to deliver to his mother would be within his grasp too late to make a difference to Allegra Santinova.
CHAPTER ONE
PRINCESS CHARLOTTE ROTHSBURG’S heart had not stopped racing for almost an hour. Not since giving her guards the slip—most unfairly—towards the end of the event she’d been attending. It had been reckless, spontaneous, utterly thoughtless, and wonderfully fun.
Charlotte had been a good girl almost all her life, and she stood now on the brink of the monumental event of having her engagement to the Sheikh of Abu Hemel announced, the arranged marriage one she’d agreed to simply because she was aware, as she always had been, that it was her fate. More than that, it was the purpose of her being: to provide an heir. Bitterness curdled in her gut.
Her job was to secure the royal lineage. To grant her kingdom the baby her brother was unable to provide.
She’d been raised to understand what was expected of her, but that didn’t mean she had to like it, and it didn’t mean she had to willingly walk into the future without a tiny hint of rebellion first—a last taste of freedom before she subjugated herself to that destiny.
She deliberately pushed from her mind the one other time she’d stepped out of line, refusing to think about that now. Yes, the consequences had been excruciating, but then, she’d been only a girl, and now Charlotte was a woman, and this act of rebellion was different anyway. There could be no consequences to this little thrill-seeking mission. She was just trying to absorb a little of New York’s famed nightlife without her ever-present security guards. They’d never have let her come somewhere like this.
A thrill made her pulse twist as she wove through the packed bar, inhaling deeply and tasting expensive perfume, the hint of cigar smoke, the heavy spice of alcohol, and polished brass. The noise was a din—the background sound of chatter and laughing, and, when she paused and focused, the muted strains of classical guitar songs being piped through speakers overhead.
At the bar she looked around, casting more than a cursory glance at the people gathered together. Women and men, corporate types mostly, dressed in suits—expensive, tailored suits—and finely cut dresses with kitten heels and pearls, and she had no doubt the outfits were owing to the bar’s proximity to Wall Street.
This was madness.
Her security guards would probably get fired.
She should not have run away.
But the idea of flying into New York to attend a single event, again, to smile and nod for three hours straight and then be bundled back to her hotel room, surrounded by security and handlers, had seemed abhorrent to Charlotte. It hadn’t been premediated, but when the opportunity for escape had presented itself she’d slipped out of a back access point, past the caterers’ vans, and onto a busy, vibrant street.
A man laughed and she turned towards him instinctively, a smile curving her lips as she studied his relaxed pose, and the way the woman he was talking to leaned closer to him, her smile natural, her body language clearly flirtatious.
Awareness pulsed low in her abdomen now as she studied their interaction, the chemistry between them, and allowed herself to wonder if she and the Sheikh would share that same desire?
It was impossible to know—she’d only met the man a handful of times, and, as handsome as he was, she hadn’t left fantasising about him. Did that matter?
& nbsp; A small sigh touched her lips as her gaze carried onwards and landed with a resounding thud on the face of a man at the bar who left her utterly breathless.
His face was symmetrical and determined, his features almost too harsh and angular, giving him a ruthless quality that sent a tingle running down her spine. He was big and tall, broad-shouldered, strong-looking, like a wild animal that had been caged too long. Her mouth went dry as she took in the breadth of his shoulders, the muscular strength of his arms. Her eyes went from his hand-stitched shoes to a pair of black jeans that fitted his body like a second skin, then higher to a shirt untucked at the waist on one side, and rolled up at the sleeves, so he had a look of devil-may-care that set her pulse going for a whole other reason entirely. He was over six feet, his chin covered in several days of stubble, his eyes were oval-shaped and a dark brown, rimmed by thick, curling lashes that almost gave the effect of eyeliner, and his hair was thick and dark, with a slight curl.
Something hot and urgent spread through her body, starting in the pit of her stomach and moving to the tips of her fingers and all the way to her toes before pooling between her legs.
Her lips parted, her heart in overdrive, as he lifted his drink in the air with a single cocked brow. The question was obvious: join me. On knees that shook, she propelled herself across the room, briefly wondering if this was a form of stupidity as she made her way towards him, her heart hammering against her ribs, her body completely thrown off course by the man’s appearance.
She should turn back. Leave him, leave the bar, go and find her security guards and apologise for disappearing. But the thought of that had her chin lifting in a defiant tilt.
Not once had she questioned her life.
Not once had she shown her anger to her parents, the resentment and hurt she’d felt ever since learning that she’d been born for the sole purpose of providing the heir her older brother could not. Not once had she argued with them about their choice of school for Charlotte, about their choice of groom, about their natural supposition that she would be happy to fall in with their plans, predetermined before birth. She’d nodded along with all of it, dutiful and agreeable, just as she’d been raised to be, but tonight freedom had lit a fire in her belly and she wanted to fuel it, to allow the flames to spread, before stepping back into the gilded cage that was her life.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked when she was close enough to hear him, his voice deep and slightly accented. Italian? Greek?
She knew she should say ‘no’. The thrill of having eluded her security detail was fading in the face of other feelings that were more complex and somehow required more consideration. And yet she angled her face to his, slowly, the air immediately fizzing out of her lungs as she looked at him again and his perfection hit her like a punch in the solar plexus.
Her lips parted, and words were almost impossible to find, so she nodded and forced her legs to carry her the rest of the distance to the single empty bar stool. He didn’t move backwards, so when she sat down they were only inches apart, and his woody, masculine aroma teased her nostrils, intensifying the beating of a drum low down in her abdomen. ‘Thank you.’
He was drop-dead gorgeous, but also undoubtedly self-assured. He was the only man in here not wearing a suit; clearly he didn’t need to impress anybody. ‘What would you like?’
She tilted her head, scanning the bar. ‘What are you having?’
‘Whisky.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Too strong for me. I rarely drink.’
‘Champagne?’
She nodded. ‘Just a little.’
Another cynical twist of his lips as he lifted a hand and a bartender immediately appeared. He ordered a specific champagne she knew to be exceptionally good, and a moment later an ice-cold glass was placed in front of her. Charlotte’s eyes rested on the bubbles for a moment—they were matched by the frantic humming of her pulse—and then she lifted the glass towards him in a silent salute.
Only their eyes clashed and all the air in Charlotte’s lungs evacuated her body in one big whoosh; she was powerless to look away, and the hand that held the champagne flute aloft began to shake slightly. She drew it back towards herself quickly, trying to cover the tell-tale gesture, but she was not swift enough. Speculation darkened his eyes and her stomach swirled in response. She took a quick sip of the champagne then pushed it away. If she wasn’t careful she’d swallow it all, just to soothe her suddenly frazzled nerves.
‘You don’t like it?’ He moved closer, to be heard above the background noise of the bar, but all that did was make her strange nervousness more pronounced. Up close, he threw her senses into disarray. His fragrance was more intoxicating, combined at this distance with the spice of his whisky, and his eyes were more complex than she’d first appreciated: not simply dark brown, but flecked with grey and silver, and across his nose, beneath his swarthy tan, there was a clutch of freckles. There was also a hint of dark hair curling at the top of his shirt that her fingers ached to reach for, to curl in. Her reaction was terrifying. She couldn’t remember ever feeling like this: such a visceral, animalistic need, with no sense or reason.
Her pale blue eyes widened, locked to his as though he were some kind of magnet. ‘Don’t like what?’ She frowned, belatedly catching his question.
His eyes flicked to the drink, then back to her face.
‘I don’t drink often,’ she said again.
‘Would you prefer something else?’
She let out a small breath of relief. ‘Actually, a mineral water would be perfect.’
Again, he summoned the bartender with incredible ease, given the Friday-night crowd, and ordered a mineral water. They waited in silence while it was poured, and then, when the barman left, he eased back, just enough to allow her to soothe her dry throat with the cool drink, and replace it on the counter.
‘Where are you from?’ His question was direct and rang with confidence. She liked that. Most people she spoke to were in awe of her title and reacted with deference. It was a novelty to be treated as an equal, without any sort of marked respect or awe, and to know her handlers hadn’t provided him with a list of talking points to cover.
She instinctively shied away from answering his question, wanting to protect the secret of her identity. Anonymity and freedom went hand in hand. ‘What makes you think I’m not from here?’
‘Besides your accent?’
‘You have an accent too,’ she pointed out. She took another sip of her mineral water, appraising him with unashamed curiosity.
‘I was born in Italy,’ he said after a beat.
‘Ah. I thought so.’
‘Did you?’ He leaned closer. ‘What else did you think?’
Her eyes widened, the sensation of being flirted with also completely unfamiliar. Her pulse kicked up a gear and she crossed one leg over the other, her insides trembling with an irrepressible excitement.
‘I...’
His smile was teasing and sent a quiver of arrows down her spine. She straightened her back, narrowing her eyes as she tried—and failed—to get a grip on her rioting emotions. Desire was swirling through her, tempting her, tantalising her, for the first time in her twenty-four years.
‘You...?’ he prompted.
‘I...was just going to say that New York fascinates me.’
‘Why?’
She was grateful he allowed the conversation change.
‘It’s so fast-paced, and despite the fact there are millions of people in Manhattan I feel so anonymous.’
‘And you like that feeling?’
‘Oh, I really like that feeling.’ She grimaced, thinking of her very controlled life, imagining for a moment that she was free to stay in Manhattan for a time, to really enjoy it. ‘Here, it’s as though I can do anything I want.’
‘That’s a novelty?’
She was startled, aware she’d revealed too much. She blinked away, frowning. ‘What line of work are you in?’ she asked a moment later, when she was able to regain her composure.
‘Finance.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s a broad church. What exactly do you do?’
‘Invest.’
