The Prince's Secret Baby

by Jennifer Lewis

  He took one hand off her long enough to switch on a nearby light. A blinding burst of light revealed that in addition to his impressive strength, the intruder was tall and broad with a bold handsome face.

  Where a trickle of blood flowed from one temple.

  Maybe news of that would get him to let go of her. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have smashed my friend’s china on me.” His dark eyes glittered a challenge. His grip didn’t soften. “That’s assault.”

  She could almost swear she saw a hint of amusement in his expression.

  She felt her dander rising. “I rented this house legally, and you have invaded in the night and scared at least five years off my life. Unhand me, sir!” She hoped the formal command would get his attention.

  It worked. Slowly, and with apparent reluctance, he pulled his fingers from her arms. His gaze rested coolly on her face for a moment, then dropped to appraise her body.

  Extreme self-consciousness washed over her. What was she even wearing? She refused to look down. He was elegantly dressed in dark pants and a subtly checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up over muscular, tanned arms.

  They’re just arms, Serena. She wasn’t attracted to him anyway. His looks were too flashy. She preferred someone more…subdued. Like Howard.

  Ouch. It had been almost three weeks since Howard dumped her, and it hurt like he’d just told her five minutes ago.

  “Are you okay?” His brow furrowed with concern.

  “I should be asking you that. Don’t get blood on your friend’s carpet.” Her heart rate slowed. Now that the threat of gruesome death was subsiding, she started to relax. “You really should go.”

  “But I have friends meeting me here tomorrow.”

  “Then you’ll have to get in touch and tell them to meet you somewhere else.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Which reminded her that she had on a college sweatshirt over her blue-striped pajamas.

  Cringe.

  At least he didn’t know who she was. Probably no one would even recognize her from her publicity pictures right now.

  “It’s three A.M.” He cocked his head and rested his dark gaze on her face. “And now I’ve been assaulted. Can I at least have a cup of coffee first?”

  “No.” She wanted to get him out of there before he could figure out she was alone. Since her twelve-week stint on Good Morning, people were way too curious about her personal life, and so far she’d managed to keep her humiliating breakup out of the public eye. “Please leave.”

  He reached a finger up to his injured temple. “A Band-Aid, perhaps?”

  “I don’t know where they are.” Who did this guy think he was? “It’s not a bad injury.” With an attitude like his, he deserved to get blood on his expensive-looking shirt.

  “I’ll call and ask Zadir.”

  “Never mind.” She didn’t want anyone else in on this. “I’ll check the bathroom.”

  She could swear a slightly wolfish smile of triumph tugged at one side of his broad mouth.

  Which made her want to hurl another vase at him.

  She turned and walked toward the powder room off the foyer, sure she could feel his eyes on her. Probably laughing at her pajamas. Heck, it was nighttime! She should be in pj’s. He was lucky she didn’t sleep in the buff.

  She pulled open the cabinet under the painted porcelain sink. “You’re in luck. There’s a first aid kit down here.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Zadir is one of those people who have people who think of everything.”

  “Except double booking his beach house.” She handed him the gray plastic box, careful not to touch his fingertips. He had big hands, with long, strong fingers.

  “Most likely his very capable staff booked it to you, and he just offered it to me without checking with them.” He opened the box and pulled out some gauze and a tiny brown bottle of peroxide.

  “Which means that I have the legal right to be here and you need to leave.”

  He looked up, and his dark eyes flashed. “Impossible.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sandro moved in front of the mirror and applied peroxide to a small cut near his hairline. He winced as the wound smarted. The beautiful, angry woman still stood in the small powder room with him, and he suddenly realized something. “I don’t know your name.”

  He frowned as he fiddled with the Band-Aid, trying to get the paper strips off. His fingers were too big “I am Sandro Leone.” He put down the bandage and extended his hand.

  She didn’t lift her hand. “What do you mean impossible? Of course you have to leave. I have the rental until January seventh.”

  “I have two friends meeting me here tomorrow. It’ll be Christmas Eve.” It had been hard enough to convince them to come in the first place. Any hint of chaos and they’d both cancel and be on their own.

  “Go to a hotel.” Her big dark eyes gleamed with determination. Which sparked a flare of heat in his gut. He liked a woman with fire. And the way she’d attacked him suggested that she had more than a few sparks.

  “There aren’t any. And who wants to stay in a hotel over Christmas?” He softened his voice. “It’s a big house—ten bedrooms—how many are there in your party?”

  She stiffened and pushed an imaginary strand of hair off her forehead. “I’m here on a sabbatical. To write a book.”

  “Over Christmas?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. “You can’t be alone on Christmas.”

  “I can be alone whenever I want, thank you very much.” She crossed her arms over her chest—which threw it into tempting relief. She was pretty, with a high forehead, big dark eyes with long lashes, a proud mouth and smooth brown skin.

  And she was here all alone? Over Christmas? He snuck a glance at her ring finger—empty.

  Interesting.

  And sad. She was far too lovely to be alone. And though she wore a baggy sweatshirt and what looked like men’s pajamas, he had enough experience with women to predict that she had the kind of body that would stop traffic.

  “Since it’s such a big house perhaps myself and my friends—there are just two of them—could take over the third floor. The more the merrier, right?”

  She lifted her chin. “The third floor has the best view.”

  He felt like he was making headway. “Okay, then you have the third floor and we’ll have the second-floor bedrooms.”

  “Wait a second, I didn’t say you could have any bedrooms. Call Zadir and tell him he made a mistake. Let him find somewhere else for you.” She handed him another Band-Aid. He took it, deliberately brushing his fingertips against hers. Heat flashed between them—as he suspected it would. From the way she snatched her hand back, he could tell she felt it, too.

  “He’s in Ubar. It’s in the Middle East, and there’s a big time difference.”

  “That’s a plus. It’s the dead of the night here.”

  “And it’s right before Christmas. I’m sure he has his hands full with family and other obligations.”

  “Since when do they celebrate Christmas in the Middle East?” This woman seemed remarkable unsusceptible to his usually robust charms.

  But he didn’t give up easily. He made another attempt to peel the paper backing off the bandage. These things were made for people with tiny, delicate fingers.

  “They had the Christmas party of the century last year. I was there. I know, how about if I pay your rent, so your stay here is free?”

  Her eyes sparkled with indignation. “I don’t need your money, thank you.” She picked up the Band-Aid he’d discarded, deftly peeled off the paper and stuck it to his forehead, then pulled her hand back with lightning speed before he could enjoy the heat of her fingers. “What I need is peace and quiet.”

  “We’ll be very quiet. My friends are both total geeks. That’s why they need someone like me to make sure they’re not alone at Christmas. I make a pretty decent Christmas dinner. I’ve done it before.” He shot her a winning smile.

/>   She stared at him. “What if I want to be alone at Christmas?”

  He studied her face for a moment and saw the hesitation in her eyes, the trembling frustration in her lips. He spoke softly. “Nobody really wants to be alone at Christmas.”

  On her blog Serena wrote a lot about “turning frustration into determination,” but she was beginning to hate this guy. “I do. Your wound is bandaged. Please get in your car and leave.”

  “But I just drove three hours from the airport and that was after a connecting flight from Atlanta and a nine-hour flight from Zurich. I’m not sure I’m even safe to drive at this point. Can I crash on the sofa until daylight?”

  He probably had no idea that she had been sleeping on the couch when he showed up.

  Could she really send a stranger out onto the unlit backcountry roads with no sleep? That was not how she was raised. She softened. “Okay. Just until you get enough rest.”

  His mouth creased into a smile broad enough to be a little cocky. “I appreciate it. I’m sorry for inconveniencing you.”

  She shrugged. It wasn’t his fault. “A misunderstanding. Are you hungry?” She started to feel like she’d been a bit harsh. Perhaps she should have tried communicating with him before smashing a vase over him. Still, he’d half frightened the life out of her.

  “I ate on the plane so I’m fine, but thanks.”

  He had a nice face. Too handsome for any sensible purpose, but a warm, open expression.

  Sandro, wasn’t it? He didn’t seem like a total jerk. “I’m Serena.”

  She decided to keep her last name to herself in case he was into Googling people. Hopefully, tomorrow morning he’d disappear and no one would be any the wiser that the New York Times best-selling author of a book on Living Your Best Life was holed up on the Georgia sea islands, wishing she could figure out how to follow her own advice.

  She turned and left, partly driven by a desire to pick up the shattered evidence of her overreaction and partly to get away from that penetrating gaze.

  She hoped the blue porcelain vase wasn’t a priceless antique, because it definitely wasn’t fixable. She collected the pieces in a bag from her trip to the local market on the way here. Sandro crouched down and plucked a large piece from the other side of the arched doorway. “I guess I’m lucky this thing wasn’t made of steel. You packed quite a punch with it.”

  “You took me by surprise. I assumed the worst.” She felt kind of embarrassed now. “I’m glad I didn’t have a gun. I’d probably have used it. I’ve watched too many scary movies.”

  “It is lonely out here.” He picked up some more pieces and cupped them in the palm of one big hand. “I didn’t realize how far the house was from everything.”

  “Not many people know about this area. Most of the locals are Gullah people. This house and two others like it are the only new ones out here.” She’d learned that while looking for the most remote rental house she could find.

  “Who are the Gullah people?”

  “You’ve never heard of them?” Other people’s ignorance often annoyed her.

  “In my defense, I’m from Europe.” A wry smile crinkled his eyes. “A tiny country called Altaleone.”

  “Oh. You do have a slight accent now that I think about it. The Gullahs are descendants of African slaves who’ve lived in this same isolated spot for centuries and retained aspects of their traditional culture. It’s a unique and fascinating place.”

  “I look forward to seeing it in daylight. I noticed there were few lights between here and the highway.”

  She stood up, her bag now full of all but the smallest pieces. Hopefully, she could find a vacuum cleaner somewhere. “Thanks for helping. That was kind of you. Does your forehead hurt?”

  He shrugged. “Not much.” His eyes twinkled. “I think I’ll survive.” He emptied the shards from his hand into her bag. “If you don’t mind I’m about to fall asleep standing up.”

  “Oh, of course. Do take the sofa.” She gestured toward the one she’d just been sleeping on. She didn’t want him settling into a bedroom. Then she’d never get rid of him. “I’ll be upstairs. Please don’t do anything to frighten the life out of me.”

  His apologetic smile disarmed her. “I’ll do my best. See you in the morning.”

  An alarming prospect.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Serena muttered to herself under her breath while she applied mascara. And lipstick, and a hint of contour and highlighter.

  Really? She was putting on makeup for a random stranger who’d made her jump out of her skin?

  Apparently so. Maybe she just needed to paint on her game face. Especially since she wanted him out of here as soon as possible so she could get back to licking her wounds in peace.

  Dressed and with her hair in a neat bun, she ventured downstairs. A quick glance at the sofa showed it empty. Had Sandro left already?

  Her hopes were dashed when she heard the fridge door close in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she called. Was he rifling through her newly purchased food? This man had a nerve.

  “Good morning, Serena.” Sandro looked deliciously rumpled, his dark hair tousled and his expensive shirt crumpled. “What would you like for breakfast?”

  “Uh…I can help myself.”

  “Why don’t you relax and let me cook you something? A friend I shared a flat with in Paris now owns a string of gourmet restaurants. I picked up a few tricks from him.” He grinned, then turned back to the fridge.

  “Are you serious?” Now she was intrigued. Could a man this gorgeous and confident really cook?

  “Try me.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, suggesting that she try more than his cooking. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and fought the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Do you like frittata? I see you bought eggs, onions, spinach and parmesan cheese.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “Mmm, that sounds delicious.” And she’d get to sit here and watch him make it? “I’ll take you up on your offer. And I hope you’re making enough for yourself as well.”

  This might even make a good blog post—perhaps with mention of a handsome man cooking but no information about his identity. She hadn’t yet revealed to her audience that her engagement was over.

  Still, she didn’t want Sandro to get the idea that he was staying. “Did you get in touch with your friends?”

  “Not yet. They’re on the West Coast so I need to wait a while longer before it’s morning there.” He was already breaking eggs into a bowl, big tanned hands moving with deft ease.

  Yum.

  This was an excellent way to get her mind off Howard, who didn’t know how to boil an egg, let alone make a frittata with it.

  “You probably shouldn’t be alone here anyway. The car rental place told me there’s a big storm coming.” He sliced into the onion, and she braced herself not to cry. She didn’t even need an excuse lately. “I had to promise them I wasn’t going anywhere near the ocean.”

  “So you’re a liar. That’s encouraging. But how can there be a storm? It’s not hurricane season.”

  He shrugged. “I guess this storm didn’t get the memo. And there’s also a winter storm coming down from the Great Lakes. They’re supposed to meet up somewhere right around here. Wind, snow, ice and who knows what else. You might need help shoveling out afterward.”

  She shrugged. “I’m from Virginia. I’ve seen snow before, and I’m stronger than I look.”

  “I’m from the Alps. I’ve seen snow higher than my head.” He flashed that disarming grin, and her insides did a weird flip-flop thing.

  “What country did you say you were from?”

  “Altaleone.”

  “Never heard of it.” Maybe he was making it up. He’d already confessed to being a liar.

  “It’s tiny. In between northern Italy and Austria.”

  He must be pulling her leg. She’d been skiing in Austria and visited Italy twice. “I don’t believe you.” She picked up her phone and searched for the na
me using the house’s Wi-Fi. Sure enough, there it was. Total population twenty-nine thousand. Ruled by the Leone family since A.D. 800 and known for producing fine champagne and cut diamonds.

  Wait a second.

  “What did you say your last name was?”

  “Leone. Sandro Leone.” He smiled before stirring chopped onion into the egg.

  “Any relation to the royal family of your country?” She lifted a brow, now sure he was lying to her.

  “My brother Darias is the king.” He said it softly, matter of fact. “It’s a beautiful country. You should come visit.”

  She scanned the wiki page and saw the name Sandro Leone listed as a member of the royal family. “So if your brother is the king, you must be…”

  “A prince? Yes.” He chopped the spinach with speed and skill.

  “Show me your passport.”

  “What?” He looked up from his chopping.

  “If you arrived on a plane you must have it with you. Do you expect me to just believe you’re a royal prince?”

  He walked to the sink and washed his hands, then dried them. She followed him into the living room, where he fished into an outside pocket of his bag and pulled out a passport. He handed it to her with a lifted brow.

  The passport was burgundy in color and had a hard cover. She flipped it open and the colorful pages revealed a photo of Sandro and the name he’d given. “This could be fake.”

  “It’s real. I swear it.” His eyes glimmered with humor.

  Damn it, she believed him.

  She shoved the passport back at him. “We don’t really believe in princes in America.” She wanted him to know she had no intention of calling him your majesty or any such nonsense.

  “I don’t take it personally.” That warm smile again. He led the way back to the kitchen and resumed his chopping. “I’m just a regular person. I’ll never be king.”

  Sure. The wiki article had referred to the ancient family’s great wealth in land, art and plain old money. “Just a regular Joe, huh?”