Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

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.’