Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

Lazaro realised at that moment that he hardly knew this woman. He’d sought her out because of who she was, and they’d dated a few times—chaste dates. He liked her. And it was no secret that her family were in dire financial straits. He’d seen an opportunity to silence the critics of his playboy reputation and move that bit closer to where he ultimately wanted to be.

When he’d suggested she marry him, and in so doing pay off her family’s debts, she’d said yes.

He let go of Leonora’s hand and slipped his arm around her back, resting a hand on her hip. An intimate move. A proprietorial move. And still nothing. Not even a trip in his pulse.

He told himself again that attraction wasn’t everything. Lust was a base emotion. No one in this milieu married for lust. He was living proof that they married for other, far more practical reasons and kept their lust hidden. Secret. He wasn’t like them. He had more control.

Suddenly his conscience pricked hard and a picture formed in his mind. A memory, to be precise. A memory that had been haunting him with increasing and irritating frequency. As if the closer he got to making a commitment to Leonora the louder his conscience got.

Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel guilty.

Don’t you? asked a snide voice. So why can’t you stop thinking about her?

‘Her’ was a woman he’d met just over three months ago. In another city. Before he’d become engaged to Leonora. A petite woman. With long, unruly red hair. Freckles covering nearly every inch of her pale skin. Small plump breasts with tight pink nipples. A surprisingly curvy body. Russet curls at the juncture of her legs. He’d spread her there, opening her up to him, her glistening folds...

‘Lazaro—’

He looked at Leonora, shocked at the vividness of that memory and the effect it was having on his body. Which was galling when the stunningly beautiful flesh-and-blood woman beside him couldn’t arouse even a heightened sense of awareness.

She was smiling, but he could see it was forced. ‘You’re hurting me.’

Instantly Lazaro became aware of his hand, digging into the flesh at her hip. He relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’

A sense of shame engulfed him. And anger. That woman had been no one. His conscience pricked. Okay, so he’d wanted her more than he could remember wanting any other woman in a long time, but it had just been a moment out of time. In another city. Where people didn’t see him and whisper behind his back.

‘Isn’t that Lazaro Sanchez? They say he used to forage in the streets for food. Didn’t he used to be in a gang?’

That woman—the stranger—hadn’t had the faintest clue who he was. And it had been refreshing. It had made the intense and immediate attraction between them even more compelling. And explosive.

She’d been a virgin. A virgin. The words resounded in his head, still having the power to shock him. He hadn’t expected that. And it had led to the most erotic experience of his life...

Leonora was handing Lazaro a glass of champagne now, and he shook his head slightly, as much to rid himself of unwanted and disturbing memories as anything else.

‘Your advisors are making motions that it’s time to make the announcement. Ready?’

Lazaro excised all thoughts, memories and images of that woman from his mind and looked into the eyes of his future wife. The woman who would open the last doors for him into a world that had been denied him from the day of his birth.

‘Yes,’ he said, clinking his glass to hers with a melodic chime. ‘Let’s do it.’

* * *

Skye O’Hara was feeling nauseous. Literally. And she also felt sick with nerves. Not a good combination. A cold clammy sweat lay over her skin, and it had only got worse since she’d slipped into the jaw-droppingly beautiful ballroom, with its gold-panelled walls and massive crystal chandeliers.

She’d never seen so many beautiful tall people in her life. Or such finery. Glittering sheaths of dresses. Tuxedoes. Acres of smooth honey-hued skin, making her feel even more pale and wan. Golden lights everywhere. It even smelled exclusive. The kind of scent that couldn’t be bottled. It was wealth.

She’d dressed in a white shirt and black skirt to try and fade in with the staff. Put her unruly hair up in a tidy bun on her head. No way would she have had the wherewithal even to remotely attempt to look like one of these people. For a start she was about a foot too small, and the only redhead in sight. And she had freckles. A physical imperfection people like this would eliminate on sight, no doubt.

She craned her head, going up on tiptoe to try and see further into the room. To see where he was.

Her hand went to her belly where the reason for much of her nausea resided.

And then she saw him in the distance. How could she not? He stood head and shoulders even above these giants. His dark blond hair was still just the right side of too long, and still messy. Stubble emphasised the hard line of his jaw. And his mouth...

She couldn’t see it from here but she could remember it. Sculpted and firm. Hot. She remembered how it had felt on her bare skin...closing over her...

A gap formed in the crowd and now she could see all of him.

Her heart pounded as she drank in every long and lean inch of his six-foot-three-inch frame. Tall and broad-shouldered. Golden. Gorgeous. The sexiest man she’d ever seen. The first man she’d ever thought of as sexy. And consequently the first man she’d ever slept with.