Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

Now Lazaro felt like a total heel. He went over and embraced his friend. Then stood back. ‘I’m really happy for you and Lara. You deserve this happiness.’

His friend looked him in the eye. ‘Thanks... But so do you, you know.’

* * *

A couple of hours later, on his private plane en route back to Madrid, Lazaro was looking out of the window broodingly, thinking of Ciro’s words.

So do you...

Did he? It was an abstract concept for Lazaro, the notion of happiness. He’d always imagined it would come the moment he stood in a room in front of the people who had shunned him when they would have to acknowledge his presence and his success. Acknowledge that he was one of them.

He’d almost had that moment. But his own careless actions had precipitated his downfall.

An image of Skye’s heart-shaped face came into his head...that soft mouth. Instantly his body responded. He cursed.

His phone pinged and he took it out, looking at the email one of his legal team had just sent him. And as he took in the contents his body temperature went from hot to icy. She was doing it again. Drawing attention to herself. And him. Making him a laughing stock in the process.

He called the air steward and said, ‘Tell Philippe we have a route-change. I’d like to go straight to Andalucía.’

* * *

Skye twisted her hair up onto her head and kept it in place with a long paintbrush. She’d found a great spot on the upper floor of the hacienda to work—an empty room that led up to the roof, with huge windows and lots of light. A natural studio.

She picked up a piece of charcoal and looked at the photo propped nearby and smiled. She was doing what she loved most. Capturing people on paper. And it was fulfilling two purposes—giving her the means to make enough money to buy herself a flight home, and stopping her dwelling on the rage she felt for Lazaro Sanchez, who had gone to Madrid two weeks ago and left her behind like some unwanted baggage.

But as she stood in front of the makeshift easel and the blank piece of paper now, instead of drawing the face in the photo she started drawing another one that was seared into her memory like a brand. One with beautiful symmetry but hard lines. One with a world-weariness etched into every pore, but also a curious vulnerability.

After a few minutes of frantic sketching Skye stood back. It was Lazaro. Laid bare. Or, she realised in that moment, how she felt about him laid bare.

A surge of panic rose up from her gut, along with rejection of the very notion that she could be feeling anything for him. Especially after the last two weeks.

But she had to acknowledge painfully that even if they’d never met again, if she’d never fallen pregnant, she would still have held him up as an impossible standard that no other man could ever hope to reach.

Skye quickly moved the sketch of Lazaro into her folder and took out a clean piece of paper. She broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of him ever seeing it, because as far as she was concerned it screamed out how she felt about him.

Just then she heard a noise, and every tiny hair stood up on her body. She looked around and there he was. Dressed in a three-piece suit and looking as pristine as she felt dusty and dishevelled. She might have thought he was an hallucination if the physical effect on her body hadn’t been so immediate and visceral.

An intense rush of emotion rose before she could control it. Anger and relief. All mixed with desire. She felt an urge to rip that suit from his body, to expose the elemental man she’d met in Dublin. The man who had torn her world apart.

The man who had abandoned her for a fortnight.

Lazaro stepped into the room and said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Skye took a breath to compose herself, all of a sudden very conscious of her jeans and vest top. Of the paintbrush keeping her hair in place. She probably had streaks of charcoal on her face.

She said, as coolly as she could, ‘I’m sketching. Almudena said it was okay to come up here and use this space.’

‘Sorry,’ Lazaro said, coming closer and not sounding sorry at all. ‘I should rephrase that. Why have you been in the local town’s market square doing portraits of people like a common hustler?’

Skye fought to control her tumultuous emotions. ‘I’ve been doing portraits to make some money. It’s a good spot to drum up business.’

Skye could see the anger turning his eyes a vivid green, and the tautness in his jaw, but she refused to be intimidated.

‘And why on earth are you doing that?’

‘To make enough money to buy a flight back to Dublin.’

Something caught his eye behind her and he went over and picked up the photo she’d printed out. He looked at her, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it was toxic. ‘What...who is this?’