Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

Skye pulled her hand back again and this time tucked it behind her back. She forced herself to hold Lazaro’s gaze. ‘I learnt not to get attached to people when I was growing up, as we were always moving. And as for love...? I saw how crazy it made my mother—constantly searching for something she couldn’t find—so you really don’t have to patronise me. I’m under no illusions.’

Lazaro looked at her, as if searching for something, but then he seemed to relax visibly and he said, ‘Good. We’re on the same page. I wouldn’t want you to get...hurt, Skye.’

Irritation sparked inside Skye at his arrogant pronouncement, and she welcomed it as an antidote to feeling so powerless and vulnerable in this situation. ‘I’ve had long years of practice in not letting people hurt me, Lazaro, but don’t be so sure that you’re immune. You might just find that you’re the one liable to be hurt here.’

The tension dissipated as Lazaro smiled—one of the first really genuine smiles she’d seen. He looked younger. More carefree. More beautiful. Lord. If he smiled like that on a regular basis she wasn’t sure her walls of defence wouldn’t start to crumble. So much for her lofty words...

He caught her arm and started to walk her out of the study. ‘I think I’ll survive,’ he said.

Suddenly Skye longed to see Lazaro brought to his knees—all that pride and arrogance in tatters around him. She imagined herself standing over him, triumphant and smiling...

He obviously saw something in her face and said, ‘What’s so funny?’

And her smile faded because she knew it was a scenario about as likely to happen as a sudden snow shower over the Andalusian vineyards in summer.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Let’s get some breakfast—we’ve got lots to plan now.’

* * *

A couple of days later Skye was looking reluctantly at herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom at the hacienda. She was surrounded by women, the chief of whom stood back now and said, ‘Very elegant, Miss O’Hara. Perfect for your wedding day.’

Skye’s hair had been pulled back and she wore a cream shift dress overlaid with chiffon. It came to just below her knee and had an empire line. Her bump seemed to be growing daily now, but she was still at that stage where she didn’t look obviously pregnant yet. There was a light coat to go over the dress, a shade darker. Slightly golden in hue. There were sheer tights and cream satin shoes with perilously high heels.

The woman gave her a last once-over and then instructed her assistants to put the wedding outfit away carefully. Then she looked at Skye and said ominously, ‘Now for everything else.’

‘Everything else’ was a veritable wardrobe of clothes for all and any occasion. Daywear—beautifully cut trousers, shift dresses, delicate silk shirts. Evening wear—cocktail dresses and long gowns that Skye overheard the stylist say they’d have to adjust for her petite size. There were clothes to accommodate her in every stage of pregnancy. There was also underwear, shoes and jewellery.

She was relieved to see some jeans in the mix—maternity and regular. So her own identity wouldn’t be erased completely.

Then she was taken into the local town to a beauty salon, and subjected to a range of procedures ranging from pleasant—massage—to downright sadistic—a bikini wax.

As she sat under the hands of a hairstylist at the end of the day, having been waxed, buffed and pummelled, Skye thought of what Lazaro had asked her the other morning after breakfast.

‘Why did you say yes?’

She’d answered, ‘For all the reasons I told you, and also because I never even knew my father’s name. By giving our child your name, he, or she, will never have to wonder where he comes from, like I did.’

Skye had been surprised at how emotional she’d felt when she’d said that to Lazaro. She’d spent so many years wondering who and where her father was. What he did. What his name was. She could at least give that to her child—a name.

Skye’s focus came back to the salon, where the hairdresser was saying something about trimming her hair by an inch or two. She made a noncommittal noise of assent.

A little while later the hairdresser beamed at Skye and held up a mirror so she could see the back of her head. Skye smiled weakly, not recognising herself.

This was her life now, and she had to get used to it.

* * *

Lazaro saw Skye arrive back from the salon in town and for a second almost didn’t recognise her.

She was sleek and polished. Her hair was straight and gleaming red and gold, bouncing around her shoulders. She wore a bright blue shirt-dress with a gold belt around her still slim waist and gold gladiator-style sandals. Gold hoops swung from her ears.

Instinctively he moved from his office to meet her in the hall. Her scent reached him—except it wasn’t her scent. It was too heavy for Skye...too flowery.

‘You’re back.’

She turned, and he saw the tell-tale way her eyes widened on him before she shuttered her expression.