The Future King's Pregnant Mistress

Marco began to frown. Whilst he had to admit how poorly the decor of his villa compared with that of the London apartment Emily had decorated for him. He could well imagine his grandfathers reaction if he were to return to the island with her at his side, claiming that he needed an interior designer. His grandfather wouldn't believe him for one moment and he would think that Marco was deliberately flouting his orders. Perhaps he should flout them in this way. Marco reflected ruefully; it would be a sure and certain way of making his grandfather understand that he wasn't going to be pushed around. And Emilys presence on Niroli and in his life wouldn't directly impact on their subjects.

The more he thought about it the more Marco could see the benefit to himself of Emily's temporary and brief presence on the island as a sharp warning to his grandfather not to trespass into his privacy. Certainly in the unlikely event of Emily being willing to return to Niroli with him he would want her to share his bed. He would be a fool not to given the level of his current sexual hunger. Was that really why he was here now? Not solely because of his pride, but because he still wanted her too?

No!

He was already pushing open the shop door, but then he paused, half inclined to turn round and walk away just to prove how unfounded that motivation was. However, it was too late for him to change his mind: Emily had seen him.

She was sitting behind a desk talking with her assistant Jemma and the first thing Marco noticed was how much weight she had lost and how pale and fragile she looked. Because of him? It shocked him to discover that a part of him wanted to believe it was because she was missing him. Why? Why should he feel like this when, in the past, with other women, he had been only too pleased to see them move on to a new partner after he had broken up with them. But in the past he hadn’t continued to want those other women, had he?

He pushed his thoughts to one side, watching Emilys eyes widen as she looked up and saw him the blood rushing to her face, turning it a deep pink. He saw her lips frame his name. She pushed back her chair to stand up and then he saw her sway and start to crumple, as though her body were no more than one of the swathes of fabric draped over the back of another chair nearby. That deep pink glow had receded from her cheeks, leaving her so pale that she looked almost bloodless.

He reacted immediately and instinctively, pushing his way through the pieces of furniture, reaching her just in time to hear her saying huskily. ‘It’s all right. I'm not going to faint.’ before she did exactly that.

Through the roaring blur of sick dizziness Emily could hear voices: Jemma’s sharp with anxiety. Marco’s harsher than she wanted it to be their words, moving giddily in and out of one another, weaving through the darkness she was trying to free herself from. Then she felt Marcos arms tightening around her holding her and she exhaled on a small sigh of relief, knowing she was safe and that she didn't have to battle on alone any more. Gratefully she let the darkness take her as she slid into a faint.

‘What the hells going on?' Marco asked Jemma abruptly. Any idiotic thought he might have entertained that there was something ego-boosting about Emily’s reaction to him had disappeared now banished by his realisation of just how fragile she was. In all the time they had been together he had never once known her faint, or even say that she thought she might be going to which made it all the more shocking that she had done so now.

‘I wish I knew.’ Jemma admitted. ‘What I do know is that she hasn't been eating properly. She says it’s because of that flu bug she had earlier in the year. She just can’t seem to throw it off. She isn't the only one of course. I read in a newspaper the other day that many people are still suffering from its after-effects. The health authorities say that the best cures are rest and sunshine to build up the immune system. Emily’s admitted as much herself, although I can’t see her taking a holiday. I'm so glad you're here. I've been really worried about her.'

‘Will you both please stop talking about me as though I don't exist? I'm all right...'

The blackness was receding and with it her nausea. She was sitting on a chair—Marco must have put her there, and no doubt he was the one who had pushed her head down towards her knees as well. She turned her head slightly and saw that he was standing next to her. So close to her in fact, that she could easily have reached out and touched him. Weak tears stung her eyes, causing her to make a small anguished sound of protest.

‘Emily?' She could feel Marco's hand on her shoulder, her flesh responding to its familiar warmth, weirdly both soothed and excited by it. The hardness of his voice lacerated both her pride and her heart. This was not how she would have wanted them to meet for the first time after their split; she must seem so vulnerable and needy, virtually forcing Marco to step in and manage things. Fate wasn't being very kind to her at the moment, she reflected wearily.