Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella (Rival Spanish Brothers 1)

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?’

‘It’s a commission. The man’s daughter wants me to sketch a portrait for his birthday. He’s eighty. A beautiful soul.’

Lazaro put the picture down and drew his phone out of his pocket. After a couple of seconds he handed it to her. She saw some grainy pictures of her in the square, smiling at someone and accepting money.

She winced inwardly. These were paparazzi shots.

The headline screamed: We Found Her! Forced to make a living on the streets, even though the father of her baby is Lazaro Sanchez, one of the richest men in the world!

Skye handed the phone back, refusing to feel guilty. ‘I had no idea there were paparazzi here.’

Lazaro held up his phone. ‘For all I know you called them. When you should have been calling me, to let me know you wanted to leave. Instead you’ve created a public sensation—again—while looking like a student.’

Skye put her hands on her hips. Hurt and anger was an explosive mix in her belly. ‘Well, I’m sorry that I don’t meet your high sartorial standards, but I’m afraid that with limited means and an even more limited wardrobe this is as good as it gets. And,’ she continued hotly, ‘do I need to remind you of how hard you are to contact? I tried calling you, but when I realised after week one that you’d obviously decided to leave me to my own devices, I knew I had to take care of myself.’

Colour scored along Lazaro’s cheekbones, but it brought her no sense of satisfaction. It only reminded her of how he’d looked in the throes of making love. Flushed cheeks, glittering eyes and an intensity on his face that had transformed him from gorgeous into seriously—Stop it!

‘I did not call the paparazzi,’ she said. ‘Was it always your plan to get me out of Madrid and away from polite society, so that you could hide me away like something unwanted on the bottom of your shoe?’

* * *

Lazaro’s conscience pricked hard. He had hoped that by bringing her here the whole situation might somehow magically fade away. But the gods were laughing in his face at his paltry efforts to control this situation.

Desire for Skye pulsated through his blood in hot waves. He could see where the top button of her jeans was undone, to accommodate her growing belly. And from where he stood he could see the tantalising swell of her cleavage in the dip of that ridiculously flimsy vest. It looked more voluptuous.

He’d been to two functions in the past two weeks where he had been surrounded by sleek and coiffed women, and yet this one made his blood surge like no other. Even dressed like this.

Skye stuck her chin out. ‘I don’t think this is going to work. Frankly, I have better things to be doing than languishing in this luxurious outpost, waiting for the moment you deem it fit to return like an overlord.’

Lazaro watched in disbelief as she put the photo and the blank piece of paper that was on the easel into a leather folder and then walked away.

She was almost at the door when he heard, coming from deep inside him, ‘Stop!’

She stopped. And turned around. Her expression was part belligerent and part something else far more ambiguous. It unnerved him. He was transfixed by her ability to stand up to him. It was absurdly refreshing in spite of everything.

He was also mesmerised by the passionate expression on her face. Her flushed cheeks.

He’d closed the distance between them before he’d even made the conscious decision to move.

Her eyes were like bright jewels. Tendrils of golden-red hair fell around her face and he had a dark suspicion that a paintbrush was the device being used to hold the unruly mass precariously on her head.

There was an inferno inside Lazaro, burning away any rational thought. He’d been right to avoid coming back here. She stirred up too much for him.

He could have handled it if it was just desire—he knew how to deal with that and it never lasted. But she stirred up other things as well. Things he didn’t want to deal with. And yet he couldn’t let her walk out of this room.

Skye was talking. ‘...one more day and I’ll have

enough to fly home. I’ll be out of your hair and I’ll let you know when the baby is born, okay? We can meet then and decide what to do. But this...’ she waved a hand around her ‘...this is not working.’

She was about to turn away again when Lazaro reached out and caught that hand. ‘Wait—please.’

* * *

Skye stopped breathing at the rough tone in his voice. He was barely holding her hand, yet it felt as intimate and provocative as if he’d kissed her. It was caught up in the air in his, as if he was about to pull her into a dance.

She looked at him and saw a million things in those mesmerising green eyes. Anger and affront that she’d dared to stand up to him. But also heat...the same heat she felt rushing through her veins right now in a dizzying rush.

Tension crackled between them, but now it was a different kind of tension. She could still feel the anger thrumming through her system—anger at him for coming into her life so cataclysmically, sending her and it spinning off in a new direction. But, treacherously, all she could think of were those long nights of X-rated dreams. Waking feeling cold and bereft—which was ridiculous. She’d slept with this man once.