Annie O'Neil - Claiming His Pregnant Princess

“What are those?”

“They’re both pretty amazing, actually. You should get some dressings to carry in your pack. There are derivatives from algae in one of them—really good for wounds like this. Ones that ooze.”

Leah sucked in her breath after touching a spot on her thigh. “It’s so disgusting.”

“It’s not pretty now, but it will definitely heal well. Once the dressing gets wet, it will begin to form a gel and absorb any liquid from the abrasion.” She pressed her hands into her knees and put on her best I-know-it-stinks face. “Keeping the wound moist is essential to preventing scarring. The dressing I’m hoping to use contains silver. It’s antibacterial, so it will keep the wound clean of infection.” Bea tipped her head to catch Leah’s eye before she rose. “Are you going to be all right for a few minutes while I get the supplies?”

Leah half nodded, her interest already diverted as she pulled her phone out of her bag and flicked on the camera app. “I’m going to send the guys some pictures. Give them a proper guilt trip for abandoning me.”

“Back in a minute,” Bea said unnecessarily as Leah snapped away.

No doubt the photos would be hitting all sorts of social media sites in seconds. She’d taken all those things off her telefono within hours of the wedding being called off. She’d even tried throwing the phone in a canal when some wily reporter had got hold of her number, but Francesca hadn’t let her.

“Just put the thing on Mute or change your number,” Fran had insisted. “Use us. Stay contactable. We want to help.”

If only someone could help. But she and she alone had got herself into this mess.

Bea hurried into the supplies room before a fresh hit of tears glossed her eyes. She missed her best friend. Could really do with a Bea-and-Fran night on the sofa. A pizza. Box set. Bottle of wine—nope! Nix the wine. But... Oh...nix everything. Now that Fran had gone and fallen in love with Luca, and the pair of them were making a real go of the clinic at Mont di Mare, Bea would have to make do on her own. And stay busy. Extra busy. Any and all distractions were welcome.

She forced herself to focus on the shelves of supplies, desperate to remember why she’d gone to the room in the first place.

“Hello, Beatrice.”

She froze at the sound of Jamie’s voice. Then, despite every single one of her senses being on high alert, she smiled. How could she have forgotten it? That Northern English lilt of his accent. The liquid edge he added to the end of her name where Italians turned it into two harsher syllables. From his tongue her named sounded like sweet mountain water...

When she turned to face him, her smile dropped instantly. Jamie’s expression told her everything she needed to know.

He wasn’t letting bygones stay back in England, where she’d left him some seven-hundred-odd days ago. But who was counting? Numbers meant nothing when everything about his demeanor told her it was the witching hour. Time to confront the past she’d never been able to forget.

* * *

“Since when does Italy’s most pampered princess get her own supplies?”

The comment held more rancor than Jamie had hoped to achieve. He’d been aiming for a casual “fancy meeting you here,” but he’d actually nailed expressing the months of bitterness he’d been unable to shake since she’d left him. True, he hadn’t put up much of a fight, but she had made it more than clear that her future was in Italy. With another man.

It had blindsided him. One minute they were more in love than he could imagine a couple ever being. The next, after that sudden solo trip to Venice, her heart had belonged to another.

He’d not thought her so fickle. It had been a harsh way to learn why they called love blind.

When their gazes connected the color dropped from Beatrice’s face. A part of him hated eliciting this bleak reaction—another part was pleased to see he still had an effect on her.

Ashen faced with shaking palms wasn’t what he’d been hoping for... Seeing her at all hadn’t been what he’d been hoping for...but no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many corners he’d turned since he’d left England, he didn’t seem to be able to shake her. This was either kismet or some sort of hellish purgatory. From the look on her face, it wasn’t the former.

Self-loathing swept through him for lashing out at Beatrice. A woman who’d done little more than proactively pursue the life she wanted. Which was more than he could say for himself.

“What are you doing here, Beatrice? Aren’t you meant to be on honeymoon? Or is this part of it? Dropping in to local clinics to grace us with your largesse before embarking on a shopping spree. Dubai, perhaps? Turkey? Shouldn’t you be buying silver spoons for the long line of di Jesolos yet to come into the world?”

Jamie hated himself as the vitriol poured out of him. Hated himself even more as he watched Beatrice’s full lips part only to say nothing, her features crumpling in disbelief as if he’d shivved her right then and there rather than simply pointed out everything the tabloids had been crowing about. The engagement. The impending wedding. The royal babies they were hoping would quickly follow the exotic and lengthy honeymoon.

A month ago he’d refused to read anymore. He’d endured enough.

He looked deep into her eyes, willing her to tell him something. Anything to ease the pain.

As quickly as the ire had flared up in him, it disappeared.

You’re not this man. She must’ve had her reasons.

Jamie took a step forward, his natural instinct to put a hand on Beatrice’s arm—to touch her, to apologize. As he closed the space between them the handful of gel packs and silver dressings she’d been holding dropped from her fingers. They knelt simultaneously to collect them, colliding with the inevitable head bump and mumbled apologies.

Crouching on the floor, each with a hand to their forehead, they stared at one another as if waiting for the other to pounce.

By God, she is beautiful.

“You’ve grown your hair,” she said finally.

She was so close he could kiss her. Put his hand at the nape of her neck as he’d done so many times before, draw her to him and...

She was talking about haircuts.

A haircut had been the last thing on his mind when she’d left. Work. Work had been all he’d had and he’d thrown himself so far into the deep end he’d been blind to everything else. Got too involved. So close he’d literally drained the blood from his own body to help ease the pain of his patient.

Elisa.

That poor little girl. They’d shared a rare blood type. Foolishly he’d thought that if he saved her life he might be able to save himself. In the end his boss had made him choose. Take a step back or leave.

So here he was in Italy, just when he’d thought he was beginning to see straight again, eye to eye with the woman who had all but sucked the marrow from his bones.

“It looks nice,” Beatrice said, her finger indicating the hair he knew curled on and around his shirt collar. What was it she’d always called him? Hay head? Straw head? Something like that. Something that brought back too many memories of those perfect summer months they’d shared together.

He nodded his thanks. Blissful summers were a thing of the past. Now they were reduced to social niceties.

Fair enough. He glanced at his watch. The chopper would be leaving in five. He needed to press on.

“C’mon. Let’s get these picked up. Get you back to your patient.” No matter how deeply he’d been hurt, patients were the priority.

She reached forward, sucking in a sharp breath when their fingers brushed, each reaching for the same packet of dressings.