Stealing the Promised Princess

by Millie Adams

  * * *

  The river had burst its banks during the night. June had been unseasonably wet, and a month’s worth of rain fell in twenty-four hours, turning the pretty stream that meandered through the Dorset village of Fraddlington into a raging torrent.

  Betsy had piled sandbags around the front door of the cottage, but in the morning she discovered that the floors of the downstairs rooms were submerged beneath inches of filthy brown water—although fortunately the kitchen at the back of the house had been built on a slightly higher level and remained dry. The water had gradually drained away but it left behind a thick layer of black silt that stunk.

  Sebastian stood behind the child gate that Betsy had fixed across the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room. He was nearly fifteen months old and utterly adorable. His brown eyes were flecked with gold, just like his father’s eyes. But Betsy refused to think about Carlos.

  ‘I’m afraid you will have to stay there while I clear up this mess,’ she told her little son as she leaned down and kissed his dark brown curls.

  Betsy rented the cottage and had no idea where she and Sebastian could go while the flood damage was repaired. The village had been on high alert to the possibility of the river bursting its banks for several days, and news crews had flocked to Fraddlington to report on the unfolding situation. When she dragged a sodden rug outside and dumped it in the front garden, she saw her neighbour talking to a man holding a microphone.

  Betsy went back inside and shut the door, thinking about another journalist who had approached her a few days ago while she had been pushing Sebastian in his buggy. She had suddenly realised where she had seen the journalist before.

  Two years ago, he had come to her aunt’s house in south-west London to interview Carlos Segarra, that year’s winner of the men’s singles title at the British International Tennis Championships, widely known as the BITC. Betsy had been working as the housekeeper there, and Carlos had leased the house for several weeks during the tournament while Aunt Alice had gone abroad.

  After spending the night with Carlos, Betsy had woken late the next morning and, finding herself alone in his bed, had gone to look for him. She had ached in places she’d never ached before, and the lingering proof of Carlos’s intimate caresses had made her long for him to make love to her again.

  Memories of that night pushed into her mind. What a naive fool she had been, she thought bitterly as she pushed the mop across the floor and wrung a stream of muddy water into a bucket.

  Growing up in the war zone of her parents’ toxic marriage and their acrimonious divorce had made her sceptical about the idea of falling in love. She had been on a few dates with guys she’d met at university, but she’d never had a serious romantic relationship because she was fearful of lowering her barriers and risking being hurt. And yet deep down she had still cherished a hope of meeting her prince—and he had arrived in the form of a tall, bronzed and impossibly handsome tennis star.

  For the only time in her life Betsy had let her guard down, with Carlos, believing that there was a special connection between them. But the truth was that she had been just another notch on his crowded bedpost. She had overheard him telling the journalist who had come to the house to interview him about his success that she was ‘a casual fling’.

  Peeling off her rubber gloves, Betsy felt a surge of despair as she glanced around the cottage. She had enough to worry about without the sense of foreboding that had gripped her since she’d recognised that journalist in the village. She was sure that he remembered her from two years ago, and it made his curiosity about Sebastian unsettling.

  A knock on the front door made her jump. It was probably someone from the emergency services, checking on the residents who had been affected by the floods, she told herself. She looked in the kitchen and saw Sebastian sitting on his playmat. There was another loud knock and she moved towards the front door. Through the frosted glass pane she could make out a tall figure, and inexplicably her heart started to thud.

  ‘Hi...’ Betsy’s voice faltered as she opened the door—and stared at Carlos.

  Shock turned the blood in her veins to ice. It couldn’t be him. He did not know where she lived and there was no reason why he would be looking for her. No reason that he would be interested in anyway.

  She had forgotten how gorgeous he was. Not that she’d been able to forget him at all. But Carlos Segarra in the flesh was a thousand times more devastatingly handsome than the man who regularly haunted her dreams.

  Her eyes roamed his hard-boned features, taking in his masculine beauty; the razor-edged cheekbones above the hollow planes of his face, the square jaw shadowed with dark stubble, and the mouth that she knew could be sensual or cruel, but right now was drawn into a grim expression that made Betsy’s heart sink.

  Carlos’s stunning looks and his fame as a superstar sporting legend, not to mention his reputation as a prolific playboy, meant that he often featured in celebrity magazines. Betsy hated herself every time she succumbed to her curiosity and bought a magazine that had a picture of Carlos, dubbed ‘Spain’s sexiest man’, on the front cover. But she had been irresistibly attracted to him the moment she’d set eyes on him two years ago, and now she was dismayed to discover that his impact on her had not lessened.

  She felt a quiver in the pit of her stomach as her gaze locked with his sherry-gold eyes, gleaming beneath thick, dark lashes.

  It wasn’t only his eyes that made her think of a jungle cat. She pictured the lean, muscular body, honed to physical perfection, that had made him a superb athlete. On the tennis circuit he had been nicknamed ‘The Jaguar’, because of his speed around the court and his unpredictability. You could never know what a jaguar was thinking, and the same went for Carlos Segarra.

  Swallowing hard, Betsy ran her eyes over Carlos’s elegant grey suit. The bottom few inches of his trousers were damp and his brown leather shoes were caked in mud. ‘You should have worn boots.’ She bit her lip when she realised that that was an odd way to greet him after two years. ‘Why are you here?’

  His heavy brows snapped together. ‘I have only just arrived in England and I was not aware of the floods that have affected this part of the country.’

  His accented voice sent a shiver of response across Betsy’s skin. She could feel the pulse at the base of her throat hammering and lifted her hand to hide her traitorous body’s reaction to him.

  Carlos’s hard gaze flicked over her shapeless tee shirt and faded sweatpants. She’d dressed in old clothes, knowing that she was bound to get filthy in the clean-up operation. He glanced down at her mud-spattered wellington boots and his mouth flattened. Betsy resisted the temptation to remove the scarf that she’d tied over her hair. She looked a mess, but she did not give a damn what Carlos thought of her, she assured herself.

  ‘The flooding has been a big story in the media. I’m surprised you haven’t read about it.’ She looked at the newspaper he was carrying under his arm. ‘If you had it might have saved your suit.’

  ‘To hell with my suit.’ Carlos’s tone was blistering. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  He thrust the newspaper into her hand and stepped into the cottage without waiting for her to invite him in.

  ‘Dios...’ he muttered as he glanced around the sitting room. There was a brown tidemark halfway up the cream sofa, and an unpleasant smell permeated the room. ‘I’m guessing that this flood damage will be expensive to repair. Is that why you did it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Did what? I don’t understand.’ Betsy backed away from the lethal gleam in Carlos’s eyes. He was clearly furious. Once again she felt a sense of foreboding.

  She looked at the front page of the newspaper. It was one of the more lurid tabloids and her heart slammed against her ribs as the headline leapt out at her.

  Tennis Ace Segarra’s Secret Son!
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br />   There was a photo of Betsy, standing in front of the cottage holding Sebastian. The picture was rather grainy, and her son was wearing a rain suit with the hood up so that his face was mostly obscured.

  She immediately thought of the journalist who had carried sandbags up the garden path and helped her pile them against the door.

  ‘You don’t mind if I take a photo, do you?’ he’d asked. ‘I’m writing a piece about the floods for the local rag and the editor likes to include pictures showing the human element of the story.’

  Betsy had felt she couldn’t refuse, seeing as he had helped her. The journalist had then casually asked Sebastian’s age and commented on his olive complexion. But she was sure she hadn’t said anything which would have led him to guess that Carlos Segarra was her baby’s father.

  ‘I have no idea how this story got into the papers,’ she said shakily. ‘I’ve never told anyone that Sebastian is yours.’

  Carlos snorted. ‘Of course you know. How much did you get paid for this garbage that has been printed which accuses me of abandoning my child?’

  ‘I didn’t—’ She broke off as Carlos slashed his hand through the air with an impatient gesture.

  ‘Last night I received a tip-off that the story that I had a secret love child was about to break in the British tabloids. I was too late to seek a legal injunction to prevent the story being published,’ he said tersely. ‘My informant said that the “scoop” had been uncovered by a scumbag journalist called Tom Vane, who believes he has a score to settle with me because he blames me after he was sacked from his job as a sports reporter. He wrote a load of lies about my reasons for retiring from playing competition tennis and I complained to the newspaper he worked for.’

  ‘I don’t know the journalist’s name,’ Betsy muttered. ‘He was hanging around the village a couple of days ago and he told me he worked for a local newspaper. He seemed familiar and I remembered that I’d seen him once at my aunt’s house in London.’

  Carlos’s jaw hardened. ‘Do you expect me to believe you?’ he asked sardonically. ‘It’s obvious that you and Vane devised this story that I have a secret child. I suppose he promised you that the tabloids would pay you a fortune if you said that I am the father of your baby? But you won’t get away with it. I want a paternity test. And when I have proof that the child isn’t mine, I will sue you for libel.’

  Betsy had often tried to imagine Carlos’s reaction if she told him about his son. Sebastian was growing up fast and was already developing a cheeky personality. It had saddened her that his father would never know him. Her conscience had pricked. Maybe she should have given Carlos the chance to decide if he wanted to be involved with Sebastian. But he had just given a TV interview in which he’d stated that he had no desire to settle down and have a family. Betsy had taken that as proof that he would not be interested in his son. And besides, she’d had no way of getting in touch with Carlos after he had returned to Spain.

  She supposed that she could have tried to contact him through his management company, but she hadn’t because her deepest fear had been that Carlos might decide that he did want Sebastian and try to take the little boy from her. Betsy knew what it was like to be at the centre of a custody battle. Her parents had fought over her, and she had felt torn between them. She was determined to spare Sebastian the same ordeal.

  Now she felt relief at Carlos’s reaction, which confirmed what she’d guessed: fatherhood held no appeal for him. But his accusation that she had sold her story to the newspapers made her furious.

  For a moment, she contemplated denying that Sebastian was Carlos’s son. Then he might go away and leave her in peace. But if he carried out his threat to sue her for libel the truth was bound to come out.

  She lifted her chin and met Carlos’s angry glare proudly. ‘A paternity test will prove that I am telling the truth. Sebastian is your son.’

  * * *

  Carlos was taken aback by Betsy’s vehement response, but he reminded himself that she was bound to stick to her claim that she’d had a child by him. Surely she must realise she wouldn’t get away with making such a false accusation.

  ‘We spent one night together, and I used protection both times we had sex,’ he said curtly. ‘Frankly, it would have been a miracle if you had conceived my baby.’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t know how it happened, but I agree that our son is a miracle.’ She walked across the room to where a gate was fixed in the door frame and held out her arms. ‘Isn’t that right, poppet? You are Mama’s little miracle.’

  Carlos stiffened as he watched a small child walk unsteadily over to the gate and lift his arms to Betsy. She picked him up and balanced him on her hip.

  ‘This is Sebastian.’

  There was fierce pride in her voice, and the look of love in her eyes as she smiled at the baby evoked a tug in Carlos’s chest. A long time ago his mother had smiled at him with the same loving pride.

  He pushed the memory away as he stared at the little boy, who had big brown eyes and a halo of dark curls and bore a striking similarity to Carlos’s nephew. His sister’s son, Miguel, was two, and he guessed that Betsy’s child was a few months younger—which meant that she must have fallen pregnant around two years ago.

  ‘He’s yours,’ Betsy said quietly. ‘He’s almost fifteen months old. He was born on the seventeenth of April, exactly nine months after you and I slept together. Before you suggest that I could have slept with another man at around the same time—I didn’t. I was a virgin and I haven’t been with anyone since you.’

  It was impossible, Carlos assured himself.

  He was conscious that his heart was pounding as hard as if he’d played a five-set tennis match. The fact that this child bore a resemblance to his nephew proved nothing. Sebastian could have inherited his brown eyes from his mother.

  But when Betsy walked towards him, carrying her son, Carlos discovered that the little boy’s eyes were the tawny colour of light sherry and flecked with gold—exactly like his own.

  Something close to panic gripped him. He couldn’t have a child. He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding responsibility.

  His mind flew back to two years ago. He had been at the peak of his career; winner on the international tennis circuit more times than any other player. But the London tournament’s coveted gold trophy had eluded him. It was the one victory he’d wanted above all others and his driving ambition had been to win the tournament in his mother’s honour.

  He had rented a house in London close to the tennis club, where he trained for a few weeks before the start of the tournament. But his determination to avoid distraction and focus on his game had been tested when an attractive young brunette had greeted him.

  ‘I’m the housekeeper, Betsy Miller,’ she’d introduced herself with a shy smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d assured him quickly when he had frowned. ‘I promise that you won’t notice me around the house.’

  Her skin was pale cream and the rosy flush that had spread over her cheeks had snagged his attention. His initial opinion that she was simply attractive fell far short of the truth, he’d realised. This housekeeper was pretty in a wholesome, fresh-faced way that he’d found unexpectedly sexy.

  She was petite, and her figure was slim rather than fashionably skinny. His eyes had been drawn to the firm swell of her breasts before he’d dropped his gaze to the narrow indent of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips.

  Returning his eyes to her face, he had watched her blush deepen and recognised awareness in her expression. It happened to him so often that he was never surprised. He was rarely intrigued by a woman. But something about Betsy had stirred his jaded libido.

  ‘Don’t be too confident of that promise,’ he’d murmured. ‘You are very noticeable, Betsy Miller.’

  Dios! Carlos forced his mind back to the present in this flood-damaged cottage. The woman standing in front
of him looked like a character from a Dickensian novel in her filthy old clothes and with her hair hidden beneath a scarf. But even though Betsy wore no make-up, and lacked the glamour and sophistication of his numerous past mistresses, her natural beauty and innate sensuality lit a flame inside him.

  To his astonishment, he felt his body spring to urgent life. Why her? he wondered furiously. He’d gone through a rocky period after he’d won the BITC, and his libido had fallen off a cliff. In fact, he hadn’t slept with any other woman since Betsy.

  The startling realisation did nothing to improve his temper.

  ‘I have never had a condom fail before,’ he said harshly. ‘And if by a minuscule chance it did, why didn’t you tell me when you found out you were pregnant?’

  ‘I didn’t know until a few weeks after you had gone back to Spain.’ She bit her lip. ‘I saw you being interviewed on television, soon after you had announced your retirement from competition tennis. After there had been rumours in the media that you planned to marry your girlfriend, the model Lorena Lopez, and start a family.’

  Carlos gave a snort. ‘I had a brief affair with Lorena, but it was over before I went to England to prepare for the championship. I had made it clear that there was never a chance I would marry her, but she wouldn’t accept it and told the press that we were engaged.’

  Betsy nodded. ‘You told the TV chat show host that you were a “lone wolf” and did not intend to ever marry or have children. I realised then that you wouldn’t want your baby.’

  It could not be true.

  Carlos raked his fingers through his hair. When he’d seen that newspaper headline he had been certain the allegation that he had a secret son was untrue. Now he did not know what to think. Betsy was either a very good liar or she was telling the truth, and the child who was struggling to wriggle out of her arms was his flesh and blood.