Michelle Celmer - Tempted By The Royal

His gaze swung over, noting the pallor of her skin, the panic in her eyes.

He whipped the car onto the soft shoulder, the tires spitting up gravel.

She flung open the door before he’d completely stopped and raced over to the guardrail. Eric was right behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her up so that she could heave over the barrier. And she did—tossing her grilled sea bass back into the ocean.

“Okay?” he asked, when the spasms in her stomach had finally stopped.

She nodded.

Now that the crisis had passed, he was suddenly aware of his arm banded around her ribs, just below the soft curves of her breasts. Of her cute little derriere pressed against his groin. Of her hair, swirling in the wind, tickling his throat, teasing him with the scent of her shampoo. And the sudden stillness of her body that alerted him to the fact that she was just as acutely aware of the intimacy of their positions.

He lowered her feet back to the ground and loosened his hold.

Her fingers curled around the top of the guardrail, gripping the metal barrier as she continued to look out at the sea, looking—he suspected—anywhere but at him.

He returned to the car to retrieve a bottle of water from the first aid kit he habitually carried. “It’s not cold but it’s wet,” he said, twisting off the cap and offering it to her.

She accepted it with a quietly murmured thanks and tipped it to her lips to rinse her mouth, then swallowed a few tentative sips.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still not meeting his gaze.

“There’s no need to apologize,” he told her. “Though you might have warned me you have a tendency toward motion sickness.”

“I don’t usually,” she said, sounding more than a little defensive.

He frowned. “Are you blaming my driving?”

“No,” she said. “Maybe it was the fish.”

Except that Eric had eaten the same thing she had for dinner, and he knew there was nothing wrong with the way it had been prepared.

“I don’t mean that it wasn’t cooked properly,” she said, knowing Genevieve wouldn’t have let the plates out of her kitchen otherwise. “But maybe there was some kind of spice or seasoning that doesn’t sit well with me.

“Or maybe I just had too much sun today,” she suggested as an alternative. “I spent a few hours by the pool with Fiona earlier.”

Which he already knew, of course. He had a clear view of the pool from his windows, and he’d found his gaze straying outside all too frequently because she was there. He also knew she’d spent more time in the shade than the sun and that she’d been wearing a hat.

Yeah, she had all kinds of excuses, as if she was desperate for him to pick one—any one—to believe. And Eric had a sudden, sinking feeling that he knew the real reason for her bout of illness.

And though the possibility made him feel a little queasy, it wasn’t anything he was prepared to ignore.

“Or maybe you’re pregnant.”

Molly wanted to laugh.

Her sister was always complaining about the cluelessness of men in general and of her husband in particular. No one could accuse Eric Santiago of being clueless—she’d gotten sick once, and he assumed he had all the answers.

Unfortunately for Molly, they were the right answers.

“You’re not denying it,” he said.

She’d considered doing just that, if only to erase the smug certainty from his tone. But the truth would be only too obvious in a few more months and, ultimately, he had a right to know. She might be annoyed that the decision of when and where to tell him had been taken out of her hands, but she was also relieved that he finally knew.

“No,” she finally said. “But it’s way too early to be making any big announcement about it, so I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between us.”

“It’s not that early,” he said, obviously having already done some quick mental calculations.

She shook her head. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“You expect me to believe that the baby’s not mine?”

No, but she hadn’t expected him to assume that it was. She’d still been trying to figure out the best way to tell him about the baby, and to prepare herself for the likelihood that he might deny paternity in the absence of proof. It was what almost any man would do when confronted with the news of an unplanned pregnancy, especially by a woman with whom he’d spent only one night. But she was starting to realize that Eric Santiago rarely did what she expected him to do.

“I’m not ready to have this conversation right now,” she said.

“Then when?” he demanded.

“Look, Eric, I know this has caught you off guard, but I want to assure you that I made the decision to have this baby and I will assume full responsibility for him or her.”

“¡Cómo infierno!”

She blinked, startled by his vehement outburst—and the fleeting hurt in his eyes.

“We made that baby together, we will be responsible for that baby together.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“I assure you that I am not.”

The calm, unyielding tone worried her. Whatever she’d anticipated when she finally got around to telling him about their baby, it wasn’t this.

“Did you really think I was the type of man who would abandon my responsibilities?” he challenged her.

“I didn’t think anything,” she denied. “But we spent one night together, and at the time, I didn’t know what type of man you were at all.”

“You should know me a lot better now.”

“Not well enough to anticipate how you might respond to the news of an unexpected pregnancy.”

“Then I’ll tell you—I have no intention of denying paternity. My child will be acknowledged and accepted as mine and he will take his rightful place in line to the throne.”

She’d been stunned to learn that the father of her child was a prince, apparently so stunned that she’d somehow failed to reach the logical conclusion that his status meant that his child would be royalty, as well.

But she wasn’t so stunned now that she failed to notice that he’d used both the terms “he” and “his.” She’d found herself thinking of the baby in male gender terms, too, but only because she couldn’t think of her child as “it.” She wondered if it was the same for Eric or if he was hoping the baby was a boy because a male child was more important in the royal family hierarchy.

“And what if it’s a girl?” she asked.

He frowned. “It makes no difference to me whether the child is a boy or a girl.”

“Would it make any difference with respect to succession?”

“No. When Alexandria was born, Julian persuaded parliament to change the law to allow for equal primogeniture so that she wouldn’t lose her place in line to the throne, which she would have done when Damon was born.

“Which means,” he continued, “regardless of the child’s gender, he or she will come directly after me in the line of succession.”

“And where are you in the line?” she asked, starting to feel a little weak in the knees at the thought that her unborn child could someday rule a Mediterranean country.

“Seventh,” he answered her question.

The response helped her to breathe again because she knew, realistically, that while her child’s place in line to the throne meant he could someday rule the country, it was unlikely he would ever be called upon do so.

Still—a mother who was a bartender and a father who was a prince? If that wasn’t a recipe for disaster for the poor kid, she didn’t know what was.

Molly was quiet during the rest of the drive back to the palace. Too quiet, Eric thought, as he maneuvered the vehicle slowly along the winding coastal road, casting frequent glances in her direction to make sure she was okay.