Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

She vaguely heard someone say, ‘Skye...’ behind her, but it was too late. She was standing in front of the woman now, looking up into patrician features. And those distinctive green eyes that Lazaro had inherited.

Shaking with adrenalin and emotion, Skye said, ‘How could you?’ She put a hand on her belly. ‘How could you just abdicate your responsibility and abandon your own baby?’

The woman was icily aloof, but Skye thought she saw a flicker of something like pain in her eyes before it quickly disappeared.

‘Because my world is a cruel one, Señora Sanchez,’ she said. ‘But I am glad my son has you.’

Then she turned and walked away, slipping on big sunglasses as she did so.

Skye was still trembling from the rush of emotion and adrenalin. Her arm was caught in a big hand and Lazaro came and stood in the spot his mother had just occupied. The resemblance was even more acute.

He was angry. Livid. Where he’d been white before, now he was flushed. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

It took Skye a second to understand that he was angry with her for confronting his mother. Because, no matter what the woman had done, she was his mother.

Skye couldn’t have been told in starker terms where she came in Lazaro’s life. Beneath the woman who had abandoned him at birth.

The hurt was immense. She could feel her emotions bubbling over and was terrified about what might spill out.

She pulled free and said, ‘I’m going to go back to the apartment.’

She turned and walked quickly outside and got into the first cab she could find. She didn’t hear anyone call Skye... this time.

* * *

Lazaro watched Skye leave, his jaw clenched so hard he had to relax consciously. The bid—everything—was forgotten.

Seeing his mother had been like a punch in the gut. He’d only seen her periodically through the years, but this time she’d been alone and looking at him. As if she’d come for him.

And then, before he’d been able to stop her, Skye had marched over like a tiny virago.

He’d heard her. ‘How could you?’

She’d articulated the words that had resounded in Lazaro’s head all his life, and yet as soon as he’d heard Skye say them out loud on some level he’d known that he’d needed her to do that. Because he couldn’t. Because the emotions his mother roused in him were too volatile.

But Lazaro wasn’t feeling grateful to Skye for her intervention. He was feeling shame, resentment. Discomfort. Raw.

And then from behind him came a voice. ‘Still airing your dirty laundry in public, Sanchez?’

Lazaro whirled around to see Gabriel Torres, those dark eyes seeing every inch of exposure Lazaro was feeling. His arm was drawn back and his hand was in a fist, ready to punch his brother before he even knew what he was doing.

Gabriel’s eyes flashed. ‘Do it, Sanchez. Go on. You’ve been dying to ever since that day you followed us to the restaurant.’

Lazaro wasn’t sure how he found the strength to resist the overwhelming urge to punch the condescending look off Gabriel’s face, but somehow he did.

He told himself it wasn’t because of Skye. Because he could imagine her huge blue eyes entreating him. Because he could imagine her soft, delicate scent and her hand touching his arm, pulling it down.

He’s not worth it, she would say.

And, damn it, as he lowered his hand and swallowed down his pain he’d never resented her more for coming into his life and ripping open every wound he had. He’d operated alone his whole life. He did not need anyone else. Not then, not now.

* * *

The blotches on Skye’s face were finally going down. She was a pale redhead, and her crying was not pretty. She felt calmer, though, as she waited for Lazaro to return. Calmer because she knew what she had to do now. For herself and the baby.

She heard a sound and turned around, steeling herself. Lazaro walked in, tie undone and hair messy. She pushed down her concern.

That green gaze zeroed in on her. His face was stark. Lines seemed to be etched there that she hadn’t seen before.