The Prince's Triplet Baby Surprise

by Lara Hunter

  “Wow,” she finally breathed, feeling foolish. “I’ve never seen anything so—”

  Francesco nodded, cupping her chin with his hands. “I knew you’d like it. You, with your artistic eye.”

  He leaned toward her, then, and kissed her once more, wrapping her close. Lisa’s vision of the oranges and bright reds of his apartment fled from her eyes. She didn’t need them any longer.

  He lifted her, drawing her legs up over his arms, and carried her to his bedroom, with its California king-sized bed, its lamps with their soft, romantic glow. He laid her upon the comforter, gazing lustfully at her, before diving into her neck and kissing her, tracing his finger over her shoulders and down the length of her torso.

  They undressed each other. They fell into each other’s arms and made love beneath the sheets, there in that room. Trust mixed with sexual passion. In Lisa’s mind, the emotion edged dangerously close to love.

  And, as Lisa’s eyelids fluttered, and she drifted toward sleep, all thoughts of Rocco and of ruining this intelligent, beautiful man for the sake of a few bucks, fled from her. Francesco’s breath came easily as he inhaled and exhaled, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She couldn’t have dreamed of a better day of her life.

  And despite Francesco’s very different upbringing, his sense of the world was rather similar to her own. They were soldiers, fighting through expectations and resentments. But together, they were allowed moments of sheer pleasure. And that was beautiful.

  SEVEN

  Sunlight draped in the wide window in the Prince’s bedroom, highlighting the gleam of Lisa’s blond hair and articulating the strong, Roman nose of Francesco, who snored ever so slightly in his sleep. Lisa’s eyes opened easily, hopeful in the brightness of this new morning and new reality. Despite having only had a few hours of sleep, she felt strong, sensual, and ready to take on the world.

  As she shifted beneath the covers, Francesco awoke and turned toward her, the warmth of him folding over her. She wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed herself into him, kissing him hungrily. The moment she broke away from him, she wrapped her legs around his waist, whispering to him.

  “I can’t believe I met you.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “I never want to leave your bed,” she whispered.

  “Then don’t. I’ll mandate it. I’m a prince, after all.”

  “And your power extends to the United States?” she asked.

  “If I say it does,” he said playfully, kissing her nose. “Why not?”

  “You pompous Aluzzians,” she said, laughing. “I can’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Which isn’t far. Look at these hulking muscles.”

  She strapped her fingers over his bicep, unable to wrap her hand around it. She squeezed as he flexed, giggling. “It’s almost like you have the power to go all night long. And maybe all day, if you feel like it.” She peered into his eyes, daring him to forget that the rest of the world existed, for just a few hours longer.

  “What else would I do today?” he asked. “If not assess every single inch of your body? I need to make sure that you’re fit for travel. I want to take you all over the world, to show you some of the most beautiful sights. Have you been to Fiji?”

  “Fiji?” Lisa laughed. “I haven’t left the East Coast since I got here. Just the occasional drive back to Detroit, when I can scrape the funds together.”

  “Would I like Detroit?” the Prince asked her. “Are there more people like you there?”

  “Sorry, sir. There’s no one else quite like me,” Lisa said, her voice faux-cocky. She lifted from him, then, stretching languidly. “I don’t even know what day it is. Or what time.”

  “You’re back at the Matador later?” he asked her.

  Lisa blinked rapidly, trying to remember what in the world the “Matador” was. In a moment, the memory trickled back: her pretending to be a waitress, meeting the Prince, diving into a night of raucous pleasure with him, and imagining it would never end. Was this the ending? Was this question—an affirmation of the distance between them—the final straw?

  But no. It wasn’t.

  As she sat, nestling into him, she heard her phone, blaring from her coat pocket. She shifted nervously, panicking.

  “You can let that go,” Francesco said, kissing her ear. “Remember. I mandate it.”

  She gave him a false smile, knowing that reality was barreling toward her, like a train. She couldn’t stop it. “I’m sorry. It might be important,” she murmured.

  She shifted from beneath the warmth of the comforter, shivering slightly, feeling his eyes upon her. She plunged her fingers into her coat pocket, drawing out several scraps of paper and receipts, along with her phone. The caller ID revealed it was Rocco, and her heart seemed to sink into the acid of her stomach.

  She couldn’t answer a phone call from Rocco. Not there, in the Prince’s bedroom. Her eyes darted from her phone to the naked man before her, his muscled biceps visible over the comforter and his curls diving over his ears and forehead, making him look like a Roman god.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the ground.

  Lisa turned her eyes downward, then. Still gripping the phone, she felt her legs bend slightly, an admittance that everything had just gone terribly wrong.

  After a final ring of her unanswered phone, she shoved the phone back in her pocket and reached for the papers that had fallen, unable to catch them before Francesco wrapped his fingers around them.

  “I can explain,” Lisa whispered, wrapping her arms around her body, suddenly self-conscious. “I really can.”

  Francesco held an old press pass, from when Lisa had been on assignment at the New York premiere of a movie. She’d been tasked with catching the actress looking her worst, to promote the story that the lead actress was aging poorly. She’d chased after the poor woman, her flash blasting. And then, she’d collected her five hundred dollars, knowing that she’d just trashed a woman’s body for her own personal gain. She’d hated herself that day. But, she’d hated herself nearly every day after that, as well. She just hadn’t thrown out the press pass.

  The press pass in question carried the Daily Sneak logo on it, along with her photo, in which her smile was more like a jeer, and her eyes were sharp, hungry—much more like her journalistic persona. And Francesco held it in his outstretched palm, glaring at the photograph of the woman he’d just spent the night with, his eyes dark and angry.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked her. “A press pass for the Daily Sneak? One of the shadiest supermarket tabloids of them all? What the hell is your photograph doing on it?”

  Lisa balked, feeling exposed and suddenly terrified—so unlike the bribing, cajoling woman in the photo. “Um…”

  “You said you could explain. So start explaining,” he said, his eyes flashing. “Because I have a whole lot of words to describe what I think this is. And I’d love it if you could prove me wrong, right now.”

  Lisa closed her eyes, allowing a million lies to come to the surface. She imagined telling him that she’d been a waitress for the event, and that they’d given her a press pass, instead of a worker pass, because it had been easier. She imagined telling him that there had been a mistake—that she’d been there to photograph for Vanity Fair, but that the pass had been printed for the Daily Sneak, instead.

  But the lies swirled, and none of them stuck. And she was left stuttering, unsure, with Francesco’s dark eyes upon her, demanding the truth.

  As the silence stretched between then, Francesco marched toward her, shaking the pass. “Why do you have this?” he cried, his eyes wide with indignation. “I’m going wild here, baby. Why are you really here? Come out with it. Just tell me the truth.”

  The word—baby—rang through Lisa’s ears. Tears sprang to her eyes. Guilt rushed through her. She felt herself fall to her knees. “I’m not really a waitress,” she mumbled, speaking to the spotless floorboards. “I’m a paparazzo.”

  “And y
ou were sent here to photograph me?” Francesco asked her, incredulous. “I can’t believe I’ve let one of your kind into my house. You’re a monster.”

  Lisa held up her hand, wanting to explain. Her breath was uneven, and her tongue lacked articulation. But she fought for it. “I was tasked with getting pictures of you and Princess Rose together. That much is true.”

  Francesco sat down on the bed, sighing heavily, but Lisa continued her confession, feeling the words tumble from her mouth.

  “I was told that I would receive more money and recognition if I took a photograph of the two of you arguing.”

  Again, the Prince didn’t move. He’d dropped the press pass, and it crumpled to the ground, like the trash it should have become weeks ago.

  “I didn’t hesitate to take it,” she breathed. “I’ve been taking jobs like this for years now, just trying to save up money to go back to school, like I told you. That’s all I wanted out of this. A bit of extra cash. That’s all.” She recognized that the truth was ugly; that it stank of selfishness.

  “Was the entire restaurant in on it?” he asked quietly. “You were working there, Lisa. You were an employee. How could they not know who you really were?”

  “I snuck onto the staff just for the night,” Lisa murmured, her cheeks reddening.

  “Dammit,” the Prince breathed, stabbing his fist upon his knee. “You’re just like the rest of them. A snake, slithering through people’s lives, without a care for the pain you inflict on the way. And it’s not like tabloid success is something to be proud of, you know. You could make money doing almost anything else—like working at Matador, for example—”

  “It’s not that simple,” Lisa explained. “I need the experience. I have to do this, don’t you see?” She blinked rapidly, feeling lost.

  “So. You got your photographs. Congratulations,” Francesco said, rising once more. He yanked a pair of boxers over his legs, covering himself. Lisa’s eyes fluttered back toward him, admiring the strength of his abdomen. The sunlight cast deep shadows that emphasized his six-pack. He was a figment of her imagination; he was unreal.

  “But last night,” she continued, wanting to chase him, to force him to retreat from his anger. “I found myself trapped in the lie, even as I began to develop genuine feelings for you—” She stopped, and Francesco whirled around, his dark eyes connecting with hers. “Even as we talked, and I learned who you really were.”

  “You mean, you became the first paparazzo to learn that we, on the other side of the camera, are human? Great,” Francesco said coldly. “That’s just great.”

  “I genuinely enjoyed my time with you last night,” Lisa whispered. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. But when you asked me to eat with you, I knew I couldn’t refuse.”

  “Because you could learn so much about me, my family, and my relationship with Princess Rose,” Francesco said, his tone accusatory. “You knew what you were doing the entire time.”

  Lisa shook her head sadly, closing her eyes. Tiny crows’ feet formed on either side, a reminder of her age. She’d spent the majority of her 20s ruining peoples’ lives. She’d become something she’d never dreamed of being.

  “It may have started that way,” she said. “But all that floated away when I realized that you—you were someone truly special. And I wanted to come home with you. I wanted to be physically close, even without speaking or listening. And, God, Francesco. I told you things. I told you things about myself that I’ve never told anyone.”

  She pressed her palm against her forehead, sensing she was running in circles. “Doesn’t that mean anything?” she breathed, tapping her tongue against the top of her mouth, feeling outside of reality. A bird flew past the penthouse window, a reminder that the world outside continued to spin.

  “Get out,” the Prince said, then. “I can’t have you here another moment more. I want you out of my life forever. Do you understand?”

  His words rang through her ears, and she nodded hesitantly, beginning to grab her things. She dressed wearily, tugging her tights over her legs, hooking her bra behind her back without flourish. She sensed Francesco’s eyes upon her, but she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t acknowledge his hatred of her.

  She’d seen the way he’d looked at her that morning—a mere fifteen minutes before—and she’d fallen for it. She’d felt she’d been dozing on a hill, beneath the sun, the grass tickling her face. But now, she was bruised, kicked from the home of the most handsome, fairy-tale prince in the world. And perhaps it really was because she was rotten, wretched, and undeserving of love.

  Lisa flipped the zipper up on her dress, and then donned her coat, turning back toward the man she’d shared a perfect evening with. “I suppose this is goodbye,” she whispered.

  Francesco held up his finger, his nostrils flared. “One moment,” he said, lifting himself from his chair. “You said you told me things that you haven’t told anyone,” he said. He couldn’t bear to look her in the eye, and his gaze settled somewhere near her toes. “Does that mean—” He paused. “Did you tell me the truth last night, at any point?”

  Lisa nodded, her heart jutting up against her ribcage. “Everything I told you was the truth, except what I do for a living. Everything about my mother. And my life in Detroit. And my friends. And my hopes and dreams.” She bit her lip, trembling.

  Moments passed. The Prince sighed heavily, acknowledging the weight of their shared silence. Lisa prayed that he would change his mind. That he’d ask her to join him back in bed. He’d ask her to delete the photographs, to unstrap herself from her commitment to Rocco and Daily Sneak.

  But he didn’t.

  “You can let yourself out,” he barked, his voice gruff, tired with disappointment. He turned toward the window and gazed at the horizon, which seemed heavenly in the distance, its edge gleaming with light.

  Lisa turned toward the door and marched sullenly to the elevator, tapping over the floorboards and then the marble, trying to memorize every nook and cranny of the apartment, the brilliant details, and the intricate tapestries, the like of which she’d never glimpsed before.

  She ducked into the elevator and bounded to the first floor, sending a sad, small wave to the doorman before exiting the building.

  Outside, on the street corner, Lisa nearly ran nearly headlong into Sergio, Francesco’s driver. Again, a cigarette sat between his lips, and he blocked her path, his breath coming raggedly.

  “My girl, my girl,” he said, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Don’t imagine I won’t tell the Prince just exactly what you’re up to.” He stretched his palm outward, clearly demanding funds.

  But Lisa shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest, anger sizzling through her. “Get out of my way, Sergio. I’ve given you enough.”

  “Not enough. I didn’t know just how deep you’d go. You’re a dirty little paparazzo, aren’t you?” he sneered.

  Lisa felt tears glimmer in her eyes, but she stood firm. “He already knows what I do, you ass. Get out of my way now, or I’ll call the police.” She lifted her phone and dangled it from two fingers, watching the man’s fat face fall, defeated.

  “It was better working for the last guy,” he said softly, gazing down the street. “Fewer demands, and fewer people like you.”

  Lisa shuffled past him and bounded toward the subway, kicking up into a run. Tears streamed down her face, easing between her lips and dripping from her chin. Suddenly, she felt she couldn’t inhale enough oxygen, and fell into a full-force panic attack, leaning heavily against a telephone pole.

  With each inhale, the world seemed to spin faster. She eyed her feet on the ground, and sensed that she was tilting away from them. They certainly wouldn’t hold her up. She wasn’t going to be okay.

  An elderly man stopped beside her and wrapped a cracked hand around her shoulder, holding her upright. His cataract-coated, cloudy eyes peered up at her, from his five-foot-nothing stance. And his words filled her with a brief burst of hope.

&
nbsp; “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but it’s definitely going to be all right. I promise.”

  EIGHT

  Lisa skipped out on the subway, choosing instead to wander through the city streets. After brimming with such hope and happiness the previous evening, the world now appeared in shades of grey, with sudden clouds forming at the horizon and spits of rain coming down on her shoulders.

  She felt like a cartoon character, her head slumped downward, her hair hanging heavy with rainwater. Her shoes scuffed on the sidewalk, and men and women elbowed her, declaring: “You better watch where you’re going.”

  But she couldn’t. Her eyes were glazed with tears.

  Somewhere south of the Prince’s apartment, Lisa’s phone began to blare from her pocket once more—the familiar jingle that generally alerted her to good news. The paper needed her. But now, the noise only served as a reminder of the messy, backstabbing life she’d built for herself.