Unwrapping the Innocent's Secret/Bound by Their Nine-Month Scandal

by Caitlin Crews

  She faltered as she realized he was following her into the bedroom.

  “I want to change, too. I hate suits.” He didn’t hate them that much now that he could afford them and had them tailored to fit like a second skin.

  “Try heels,” she muttered, and turned her back, gathering her hair to offer her zipper.

  He almost asked if that was what had put such a sour look on her face, but as he lowered the zip, he revealed the black lace beneath.

  “Strapless. I wondered what you were wearing.” He traced the band of the bra to the hook and eye closure.

  She moved away, into the closet. He toed off his shoes and opened his belt, tugging it free as he followed her.

  She was buttoning one of his black shirts over her delightfully pretty black underwear, shoes abandoned beside the dress on the floor.

  “May I?” she belatedly asked, rolling a sleeve up her delicate wrist.

  “Hell, yes, you may.” He eyed her legs. “I may refuse to buy you any clothes of your own.” He meant it.

  “I’ll buy them myself.” She walked out of the closet.

  He bit back a curse.

  “Stop playing mind games. If you’re angry, say so. I won’t chase you around this house begging you to tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’m not angry.” She came back into the closet, brushing by him in the doorway. “I don’t even know how to play mind games.” She yanked open a drawer, slammed it, opened another.

  “What, then? Why are you acting like I’ve got a gun to your head? Are you really that embarrassed to marry me?”

  “I never said that.” She paused, seeming genuinely surprised, but still cross. Her color was high.

  “You’re treating our wedding planner the way I treat my doctor when he tells me to turn my head and cough.”

  “I was perfectly civil!” she cried with a complete lack of civility. She went back to slamming through drawers. “I don’t like being the center of attention. I hate it. Loathe it. There are no words ugly enough for how much I despise being stared at. The fact that you’re standing there watching me melt down because I can’t find my pants is my own personal nightmare and I hate myself for being this way, but I am.”

  She stopped, eyes welling, cheeks flushed, arms folded over her shuddering breasts.

  Angelo reached out and dragged her jeans off a hanger where they hung in plain sight at eye level. “See, if you had asked my thoughtful and efficient staff…”

  She grabbed them and shoved her legs into them, giving a little hop to snug her bottom into the seat. She might have sniffed, but it could have been the sound of the zip.

  “I hated the idea of a big wedding when I thought I’d be marrying someone normal. Someone unremarkable. Like me.” She gathered up the tails of the shirt and knotted them with shaking hands. “I want a hole-and-corner wedding and photos that are so boring no one even looks at them. I don’t want photos that make me look like—”

  She started to brush by him but he leaned to block the doorway, one shoulder against the casing, arms folded, trapping her into continuing this conversation.

  “Like what?”

  She hugged herself, brow crinkled. “Like I feel,” she admitted in a strained voice.

  The house could have exploded and he would have stayed in this timeless bubble with her, every word ringing with impact.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “I don’t know! I’ve never been allowed to feel, have I?” She flicked at her hair so it wasn’t in her eyes. “Like my toddler nephew. Confused. Irrational. Like I should be able to make sense of this. Make order from the chaos, but I don’t have any control over what’s happening to me or how I feel about it. I don’t like being—”

  “Human?” he suggested dryly.

  “It’s never been encouraged,” she said flatly. “You saw what they’re like.”

  Her parents were definitely part of the problem, not the solution, but it was more than that. He saw the real issue now and wondered how he hadn’t seen it sooner. The way she fell back on what she knew when her confidence flagged, how she used her big words to distance people and kept that aloof smile on her face. She was exactly like almost every gaming nerd he’d ever met—introverted and quiet and preferring to live in an alternate universe because participating in the real world was such a burden for her.

  “You’re shy,” he accused.

  She took a breath as though his words had struck somewhere tender.

  “I am,” she admitted miserably. “I always have been. Literally painfully shy. I feel the hurt inside me when people look at me. I hate that I have to work so hard to be as confident as…” She waved. “As all those people out there who talk like old friends when they’ve only met each other today.”

  “And right now? With me?”

  “Like I have a pin in me, right here.” She pointed to her chest. “Like there’s a knife twisting, making each breath burn.” She clenched her eyes shut, blinking at the ceiling to fight back her tears. “I wasn’t supposed to have any feelings, especially bad ones. I certainly wasn’t supposed to blush and cry and hide. I was supposed to get over it. Become a society maven who holds court over the masses the way my mother does. A fashion icon. A belle of the ball. Instead, it’s a good thing she’s incapable of disappointment because I am her greatest achievement in that regard.”

  “That’s a lot of self-hatred. Maybe lighten up on yourself.”

  “I can’t! You just accused me of treating the wedding planner like a molester. You told me to act like a human. Like I’m some kind of robot. I know I’m bad at this, Angelo. I’ve tried to learn how to get past it. Nothing works.” She scowled, but he saw the flex of anguish beneath.

  “Is that why you bury yourself in research?”

  “Tried to, but girls aren’t allowed to like science in my family,” she grumbled. “I hated dresses until my brother told me about silkworms, then it gave me something interesting to think about when I had to wear one. And yes, pursuing my doctorate made for a convenient argument against being rushed into marriage. It was a great excuse to avoid a lot of mindless socializing, but I like it, too.”

  “You really are as efficient as you are intelligent.” He wasn’t being sarcastic. He was impressed. He had street smarts that wouldn’t quit, but academically he’d been more of a skater, capable of better grades, but only finishing the American high school equivalency at night school when he was in his early twenties. Even then, he had only done as much work as necessary to pass.

  “It’s also the only way I’ve ever been able to connect meaningfully with my family. My father especially, but my brothers, as well. I’ve always been a detriment on a social level, but I held up the Montero reputation in scholarly circles. Advanced it even, which my mother appreciates. To a point.”

  “Does your father?”

  She didn’t say anything. After a moment, she sighed. “My father isn’t equipped to appreciate gestures. I wonder sometimes if he felt like I did as a child, or if he’s on a spectrum of some kind. He’s a genius and he genuinely doesn’t care about social niceties. Somewhere along the line, he concluded very logically that a lack of diplomacy would hold him back so he married my mother to take care of that for him. She never talks about her childhood. I only know there was a title and little else, which means she holds very tightly to the life they’ve built together.”

  “And sacrificing her daughter in order to maintain that life is justified?” He clenched his teeth with repulsion.

  “She doesn’t see it that way. She thinks she was finding me the sort of partner she has, one who has worked with her to build a life that benefits all of us. I’m part of that team, Angelo. I had one job—to reset the family reputation. And I completely fell apart. The worst part is, all this distress and guilt I’m wallowing in? Completely useless. They don’t care that I feel si
ck about it. They’re not happy or sad or anxious or furious. They’re inconvenienced.” She flung out a hand, trembling all over. “They’ll get over it while I’ll live the rest of my life with this grating knowledge that I let them down. Now you want me to be some sort of princess bride and I’m going to fail at that, too.”

  “No, you won’t. Come here.” He had to hold her, she was shaking so badly. He moved into the closet and gathered her into his arms, cradling her against his chest, soothing her trembling body with a gentle massage of her back and petting her silky hair. “Cry if you need to.”

  She rubbed her face into his chest as she shook her head. “I never cry.”

  Because she wasn’t allowed to? Hell, he had shed a tear the first time he’d had four figures in his bank account. Last night, as he had held her soft, naked body against him, he’d let his hand rest on her stomach and his throat had closed up. His chest was tight listening to her struggle right now.

  She held on to him at least, trusting and warm, letting him rub her spine and try to comfort her.

  “I won’t make you be something you’re not. I promise you,” he said into her hair.

  “But that’s the problem,” she groaned. “I agree with you. I don’t want our baby to look back and think I was embarrassed. I want him or her to feel loved.”

  He drew in a sharp breath, stunned by how deeply her words pierced his heart. His lips against her hair turned into a kiss of gratitude.

  “Thank you for that,” he said, profoundly moved. “I was treated like blasphemy. Sent to boarding school so I wouldn’t be seen or heard. I need this baby to be welcomed and accepted.”

  “I do, too.” She lifted her face, mouth quivering. “I mean, beneath all the angst of planning a wedding and photos and distress at how my parents reacted, I’m really excited.” She blinked matted lashes. “Insanely excited.”

  “Me, too.” He cupped her jaw, such tenderness welling in him that he could hardly breathe.

  She melted into him and he had to let his mouth settle over her unsteady smile.

  Her clothes quickly wound up on the floor next to his, but she didn’t seem to mind having to search again later.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEIR PHOTO WENT VIRAL.

  “I don’t understand,” Pia said, trying not to have heart palpitations two days later as they were traveling back to Valencia. “How are we still trending? Are you that famous?”

  “In the gaming community, I’m afraid so,” he said dryly.

  “Because of your chip? My father invented one of the first lightweight, scratch-resistant metals for laptops. No one is excited in that community.”

  “Before our chip, I was one of the public faces in gaming, promoting championships and color commentating.”

  “I read that in your bio when I first looked you up.” She frowned, still confused by this. “You really run tournaments like any other sport industry? Why would people enjoy watching other people play video games?”

  “The same reason people who play beer league football also like to watch the World Cup. They follow players’ careers and enjoy watching great plays by their favorite teams. They root for them to win.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t follow sports. I may never fully comprehend that mindset. Why are your fans so suspicious of my motives?” Gold digger. Outsider. She threw her phone down. “Are you a gamer? How did you become involved in it?”

  “Chance.” He set aside his own phone as their flight attendant brought their breakfast. “I stumbled into one of the early e-sport tournaments by answering an ad to help move equipment. I connected with a player who had flown in from America to work the event hoping to find a sponsor, but he was terrible at networking. Didn’t like to take the initiative. I got us a meeting that wasn’t successful, but it went well enough that when he heard I was homeless, he offered his sofa if I could get myself to LA. His house should have been condemned, but I worked on a freighter for a month, then worked under the table to help with rent. On my days off, I figured out how the promotion side of gaming works. When you’re hungry, you hustle. I was starving.”

  She blinked. “Why were you homeless? Was this after you left boarding school?”

  His face blanked, perhaps regretting he had shared so much. “My tuition was halted when I was fourteen.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother died. My father’s family no longer saw a need to maintain my upkeep.”

  “And cut you off at fourteen?” Her teen years had been agonizing and lonely, but at least she’d had a roof over her head.

  She glanced at her phone where other comments had ranged from comparing her to a scantily clad female ninja character in a particular game to questioning whether she “deserved” to become part of Angelo’s beloved team.

  “No wonder they idolize you for what you’ve made of yourself. You’re very inspirational.”

  “In an industry of introverts, an extrovert is king,” he drawled. “I’m inviting my team to our engagement party. They’ll hate it as much as you will.”

  “I won’t hate it,” she protested, even though she already hated it a little, mostly because it had ruffled so many feathers.

  Angelo was fixated on having their party tonight, but her parents had already been committed to another function elsewhere. It would be bad form for La Reina not only to back out, but to host a competing event, even if it was for her daughter. Angelo had booked it at his hotel and suggested her parents come by when time allowed.

  That had still left her mother in the position of backing out of their own social event because they couldn’t possibly be anywhere but at their daughter’s engagement. Pia had tried shifting Angelo on the date, but he’d been adamant. At the last moment, Cesar and Sorcha had swooped in to insist they host the party at their home. It was a strategy straight from the Montero playbook, taking back home court advantage.

  Pia’s parents had had to withdraw from the other affair, something at which her father was supposed to have presented an award. That was bad enough, but they weren’t the only ones jumping ship in favor of the far more exclusive event up the coast. If anyone held more social sway in the country than La Reina Montero, it was her son’s wife, Sorcha. Dignitaries attended for the chance to rub shoulders with the Duque and Duquessa, while young professionals, jet-setters and the fashionably elite wouldn’t miss a chance to mingle with the Montero heir.

  Pia had quit reading her texts. She didn’t know who she was causing to be snubbed and didn’t care, too busy with her own concerns. Along with the multitude of calls and emails with her own accountant and the family lawyers and PR team, she was working with her stylist to curate her wardrobe for the events they faced through the holiday season and into her wedding in mid-January. She was trying to be nicer to the wedding planner, but the young woman was underfoot at every turn with questions and samples and suggestions.

  Finding a wedding dress on short notice had meant calling in a favor with a friend of Sorcha’s in Italy. Her poor designer had had to swear a blood oath to keep Pia’s pregnancy under wraps until such time as they wanted to announce it, and Pia still hadn’t settled on a dress for tonight.

  Then there was the act of moving from the gorgeous little house her maternal aunt had bequeathed to her to the island mansion where an interior designer was already asking about nursery furniture.

  “Of course you should keep this house if you want to,” Angelo said as he wandered the rooms of her home, taking in the earthy tones and comfortable furniture. “It will give us our own space when we come to visit your family. You’ll have to convert one of these rooms to a nursery, though.”

  “Oh dear Lord,” Pia whimpered.

  Angelo chuckled as he kissed her forehead. “Why don’t you nap before we have to dress and leave for your brother’s?”

  “I have so much to do.” She could barely face it, thou
gh.

  “I’ll wake you before I leave for my meeting,” he promised, nudging her into the bedroom, where he draped a blanket over her.

  She should have known he was lying.

  Two hours later, the jangle of the landline woke her. Few people used it beyond her family or the occasional call from the grocer. She answered in time to hear her housekeeper on the extension telling the caller she wasn’t available and offer to take a message.

  “I’m here,” Pia said. “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Tomas Gomez, Señorita Montero. Do you know who I am?”

  “I’ll take it,” Pia said, sitting up. The phone clicked as her housekeeper hung up. “I believe my brother Rico now owns an estate that previously belonged to your family.”

  “That’s right. It was in our family for generations. Do you know why Angelo was on the estate the night of the masked ball?”

  “W-was he?” She instinctively played dumb, mostly because she was so surprised to receive this call.

  “He was there for more than the painting, Pia. But you already know that, don’t you? Were you helping him?”

  Her skin crawled at his use of her name, but she couldn’t seem to hang up the phone. “In what way? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The jewelry. Did you help him retrieve it?”

  She caught her breath loudly enough he must have heard it.

  “Where is it? Can you get it?”

  “It’s in the possession of a security company.” She said it out of instinctive fear he would break in here looking for the treasure if she wasn’t frank about it. “Why are you talking to me about this, rather than Angelo?”

  “Don’t you want to know that your fiancé is a thief? A con artist? It’s no accident he booked your engagement party for the night your parents were scheduled to attend an event where I will receive some well-deserved recognition for my philanthropy. That’s what kind of man he is. He’s trying to buy respectability by attaching himself to you while nursing an old grudge against people he knows are better than he is. Your mother would be horrified if she knew the truth of his background. Not that I’ll say anything. If you can get me the jewels?”