Sandra Marton: Billionaire Prince, Pregnant Mistress

What was that car doing here?

It was parked just across the street. A big car, long and black and elegant. She knew little about automobiles but in this still-ungentrified stretch of Lower Manhattan a Rolls or a Mercedes or a Bentley, whatever the vehicle was, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb.

Her lips turned down.

It was probably a realtor, trying to get a feel for things. They’d been showing up as regularly as rats in the alley, a sure sign that the area was about to become too expensive for people like her. One realtor had even turned up at her door a couple of weeks ago, oozing charm. She’d only managed to get rid of him by assuring him she didn’t own her loft—though she hadn’t been able to keep from telling him that if she did, there wasn’t a way in the world she’d sell it to him.

In a gesture of defiance and frustration, she glared at the car and stuck out her tongue. Then she drew back into the darkness, laughing nervously at herself. What a crazy thing to do but on a day that had gone as badly as this, it was better than nothing.

Alex, sitting in the back of the Bentley limo, blinked in surprise.

Had the Santos woman just stuck her tongue out at him?

No. Why would she do that? She couldn’t even see him. It was dark. The windows of the car were tinted. She had no way of knowing if there was someone in the car or not.

A distortion, then, caused by the cold and the heavily falling snow.

Not that it had been falling heavily enough to have kept him from seeing that cozy lovers’ greeting between her and the man who’d just left. And not that he gave a damn. Five minutes to explain why he was here, that the commission was hers, and that would be the end of it.

This was for his mother. He could ignore his anger. His disgust. He could do this.

He just wished he hadn’t had to view such a charming little scene. It was enough to make his belly knot. A snowy evening. A lover, so eager for his woman that he met her downstairs. Greeted her with tenderness. Went back upstairs with her. Talked to her. Kissed her…

And walked away.

Alex frowned.

What sort of lover was this man? Why had he chosen the cold night instead of a woman’s heat? As for tenderness… Did he not know that tenderness was not what Maria Santos wanted? She was hot. Wild. Eager in bed.

Even now, he could remember how she had been that night. Her scent. Lilies of the valley, he had thought, as delicate and fragrant as those that grew wild in the hills near his home on the cliffs. Her skin, warm and soft under his questing hands. Her hair, brushing like silk against his throat.

Her nipples, sweet on his tongue.

Her mouth hot, so hot against his.

Her little cries. Her moans. That one incredible moment as he’d entered her when he’d thought—when he’d imagined—that she had never before known a man’s possession.

And, damn it, what in hell was he doing? His body had grown hard, just remembering. Alex let down the window and drew a long breath of cold, snow-laden air into his lungs.

The thing to remember was not how she had been in his bed but the reason she had been there. It had not been an accident; that she’d stood in seeming uncertainty just in front of the building in which he had his offices in Ellos, guidebook in hand, had been, he knew, deliberate.

He had not suspected it then.

But he’d noticed her right away. What man wouldn’t?

Slender, very pretty, her dark mane of hair pulled away from her face by a simple gold clasp and left to tumble down her back, her figure limned by the fading light of the day, she’d been a delightful sight.

He’d paused as he came out the door. She had a pair of small reading glasses perched on the end of her nose; somehow, that had added to her charm.

American , he’d thought, a tourist. And, withoutquestion, lost .

He’d been in no particular hurry to go anywhere. Okay, why not? he’d said to himself, and smiled as he’d approached her. “Excuse me,” he’d said pleasantly, “but do you need some help?”

She’d looked up from the slim guidebook, her eyes a little blurry because of the glasses. Her hesitation had been artful, just enough to make her seem not just cautious but almost old-fashioned.

“Well—well—thank you. Yes, actually, I do. If you could tell me… I’m looking for the Argus . It’s a restaurant. Well, a café. The guidebook says it’s supposed to be right here. The hotel desk clerk said so, too. But—”

“But it isn’t,” Alex had said, smiling again. “And, I’m afraid, it hasn’t been, not for at least a year.”

Her face had fallen. Disappointment had only made her lovelier.

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well—thank you again.”

“You’re most welcome.”

She’d taken off her glasses and gone on looking up at him, her eyes—hazel, he’d noted, neither brown nor green nor gold but a veritable swirl of colors—as wide and innocent as a fawn’s.

Innocent as a fox approaching a hen house, he thought now, his mouth thinning to a tight line.

Maria Santos had known exactly what she was doing, right up to how she’d reacted when he’d suggested another restaurant nearby.

“Is it…?” She’d hesitated. “I mean, is this other restaurant—?”

“As good as the Argus ?” Truth was, he had no idea. He’d never been to the Argus . From what little he recalled, it had been a tiny café, just a place to get a quick bite.

“As inexpensive.” Color had swept into her cheeks. “The guidebook says—”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he’d said, because she wouldn’t.

The restaurant he’d recommended was incredibly expensive—but he would take her to it. He would dine with her and pay the bill. Just to talk, he’d told himself. Just to be a good ambassador for his country, even though—to his surprise—this beautiful stranger did not seem to recognize his face when the simple truth, much to his chagrin, was that spotting him was as much a tourist attraction as the beaches, the yachts and the casino.

The hell she hadn’t recognized him.

She’d known who he was. She’d set the entire thing up.

But he had not known it, then.

She’d protested prettily that she couldn’t possibly let him pay for her meal but she’d let him think he’d overcome her protests. And, after dinner, when they’d walked along the sea wall, when he’d kissed her while they stood surrounded by the tall pines that grew on a little promontory and their kisses had gone from soft and exploratory to hot and deep, when his hands had gone under her silk skirt and she’d moaned into his mouth, when he’d put his arm tightly around her waist, still kissing her, and led her through the now-quiet streets to his flat, to his bed, when she’d clung to him and whispered she’d never done anything like this before…

When she’d come apart in his arms, her cries so sweet, so wild, so real…

Alex cursed.

“Sir?” his driver said, but Alex ignored him, swung open the door of the Bentley himself and stepped into the night.

Lies, all of it, lies that had come undone in the early morning when he’d reached for her again and found her side of the bed empty. He’d assumed she was in the bathroom.

She wasn’t.

He’d heard her voice, soft as the breeze from the sea. Was she on the phone? Without knowing why he did it, he’d carefully lifted the one on his night table and brought it to his ear.

Yes , he’d heard her say with a breathy little laugh, yes, Joaquin, I think I really do have a good chanceof being named the winner. I know the competitionis tough but I have every reason to believe mychances are really excellent .