Royal Baby: His Unplanned Heir - A Prince's Secret Baby Romance

by Layla Valentine

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  Chapter One

  Ella

  In my defense, I made a valiant attempt to join in with the festivities. As the heiress to EBgen Corp, it would only be suitable to mingle with my future employees. However, upon spotting my mother with a half-dozen shot glasses lined up in front of her, I made an executive decision; as pleasant as it might have been to break the news to her when she was three sheets to the wind, I knew I would only regret it later. She’d wake up the next day, mind wiped thanks to that heavenly elixir known as bourbon. Which, for me, meant I would have the most awkward conversation of my life not once, but twice.

  Granted, I could have tried to just enjoy the party. Unfortunately, except for the crew themselves, every other person on board the cruise ship was one of my mother’s employees. As appealing as the thought of hitting the free bar was, I knew I wouldn’t much enjoy talking shop with a ship full of drunk businesspeople.

  That was one of the most annoying things about being the poster child for EBgen; most of the employees were older men who had been working for my mother for decades. In spite of just turning twenty-four, they still viewed me as little more than a child. It wouldn’t do for Ella Beck to go on a drunken tirade saying things such as, “Yes, I’m very much allowed to drink, Bernard. This sort of thing is why your wife divorced you; you can’t keep your opinions to yourself.”

  I could imagine the field day my mother would have with that one. In spite of naming her company after me, there was no question that she would side with her employees over her daughter—faster than you could say, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ella."

  This was what left me darting away from the main bar on the upper deck, trying to dismiss the turmoil in my stomach as seasickness. I was a grown woman; it was humiliating to acknowledge how fearful I was of my mother’s disappointment.

  It should have been an enjoyable cruise. Especially considering that once we hit port in Rio, my mother would be signing a contract so lucrative that everyone under her employment would see their salaries nearly double. It didn't mean very much to me, however. I didn’t have to work to get to the point I was; I was born to take over EBgen.

  I’m pretty sure my mother had negotiated a contract with my father (or, by my mom’s assertion, sperm donor) to ensure that he wouldn’t put any ideas of freedom in my head. They had divorced when I was an infant, however, so I couldn’t pose such questions to the man himself. My mother liked to claim that he had been a deadbeat, but in Martha Beck’s eyes, having any dreams that went beyond your income confirmed you a deadbeat on the spot.

  I loved my mother dearly, regardless of my bitterness. All the same, I could see why anyone would head for the hills after getting to know her winning business model. I had been fantasizing about my great escape for some years, and had even gone to one of the most prestigious liberal arts schools in the country in an attempt to assert some independence.

  Unfortunately, growing up home-schooled with a parent who placed zero emphasis on the arts left me ill-prepared for such a big step. Cue me tucking tail and changing my major to an MBA. Not one of my proudest moments, but my mother had been thrilled.

  In spite of my entire life seemingly leading up to the time that I would take over EBgen, I still carried hopes and dreams beyond that. I wanted nothing more than to travel the world, learn new languages, and immerse myself in the cultures beyond my own. The only trips I’d been on had been business-related, and while the destinations were grand, I hadn’t seen much besides the insides of offices and hotel conference centers.

  This particular trip had only served to cement the idea that I was unsuited for this lifestyle. I couldn’t even feign interest in the stories my mother had heard around the office printer. Oh, yes, do fill me in on all the details of how Jerry had mixed up the cyan and magenta ink! I had begun to wonder if I was insane; if perhaps that was the sort of thing ordinary people found themselves entertained by? Was I defective in some way? Christ, there had to be more to life than break room gossip and stock market shifts.

  God forbid I try to find a boyfriend with interests outside of the box deemed acceptable by my mom. Does he like stand-up comedy? “He must be a stoner, Ella, for the love of God.” Does he work in graphic design? “Oh, heavens, a starving artist. Enjoy living off of ramen noodles for the rest of your life.” It drove me crazy how quickly my mother dismissed my desires. For years, I had been convinced that she just wanted me to stay single and ‘ready to mingle,’ but then she had started trying to set me up with the stuffy sons of her employees.

  It would have been fine if they had been handsome, or at least moderately attractive. However, they had all been prematurely balding, with interests including ‘fiscal responsibility.' I had the vaguest inkling of an idea that my mother only wanted me to birth another child to take my place after I kicked the bucket. Which, judging by the stress that went with this job, I could see myself doing by forty.

  On numerous occasions throughout my life, I had tried to convince myself that my mother simply had my best interests at heart. As I grew older, however, it became apparent that the only thing she cared about was the life she had laid out for me. I would be wealthy, well-known across the country. Hell, I would likely be known worldwide if the expansion plan she was putting into action resulted in success. Of course, it would. Martha Beck didn’t know the meaning of failure.

  The one lingering question was whether or not I would be happy. More specifically, did she even care about my happiness? Was I simply a vessel to perpetuate her success? Was she using the profits from EBgen to fund brain transplant surgery so she could swap our bodies when she became too old and frail?

  Okay, I’ll admit that is a bit of a stretch. If you ask me, though, the entire situation was ridiculous. My life was founded in ridiculousness, at least if you accounted for the times my mother insisted I was as such. If you subtracted ridiculousness from the equation, my life’s foundation was much duller. At this point, I craved ridiculousness. I craved anything aside from the life that had my mother put into motion for me.

  I was jolted from my thoughts as I nearly collided with someone coming the other way.

  Oh, heavens.

  He had to have been the most handsome man I had ever laid eyes on. His hair was dark and shaggy, his eyes the most piercing shade of blue. If I had ever doubted the existence of a higher power, he restored my faith upon seeing that he was shirtless, his well-formed abs exposed to the open air. My immediate thought was to ask, “Can I touch your muscles? Forgive me if that’s a ditzy thing to ask, but I’m a woman with needs!” Luckily, the idea registered in my mind as crazy before it reached my lips.

  He seemed too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice me, unfortunately, sidestepping me at the last possible second and continuing in the direction he was going. I came to a stop, turning to watch as he walked away. If you’ve ever heard that phrase, ‘I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,’ rest assured that it appropriately suited my thoughts at that moment. He had the roundest, most toned butt I had ever seen on a man, and his tanned, muscular legs seemed to stretch on for days.

  As he turned the corner and I could no longer watch the unfairly sexy motions of his body, I realized abruptly that I needed a drink. A gin and tonic sounded magnificent, but to indulge that desire, I would have to join the festivities I was trying so desperately to avoid.

  Making another executive decision, I walked in the direction of the party. If I was lucky, maybe my mother wouldn’t get as drunk as I expected. It had always been a tossup, and I was forced to wonder how lucrative alcoholism could be for the company’s image. I would at the very least get to enjoy that gin and tonic to soothe the fire of desire that had been brewing in my gut since I’d seen that handsome crew member.

  In another world, in another lifetime, I might have stopped him and asked for his name. In another world, I wasn’t Elizabeth Beck; I would be a sexy alien princess, at liberty to hav
e her share of handsome men any day of the week.

  ‘An alien? Honey, have you been reading that strange erotic fiction again?’

  Great. I was even beginning to hear my mother’s voice in my brain. Quite fortunately, however, I didn’t have to offer my brain-mother an explanation for my strange thoughts. I simply imagined a tiny version of her working in the wings of my mind. She seemed to be lingering towards the inexplicable anxiety button, which was so like her.

  I knew it was just my imagination, of course. I wasn’t that crazy. At least, not yet. If it wasn't the stroke by forty, it would be a nervous breakdown that rendered me incapable of running a business empire.

  It’s always good to have a fallback plan, after all.

  I managed to smile to myself as I made my way back to the party. One of my mom’s employees, Jerry, reached out a hand to stop me as I approached the bar, and I forced a pleasant expression.

  “Just a moment, young lady. We’re going to need to see some ID!” he teased. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, something of which I was extraordinarily proud.

  “Oh, yes! Right, considering the collective age of this cruise…” I paused, realizing what I’d said, some moments after the words slipped past my lips.

  Jerry considered me with a quirked brow, and I tried to brush him off, producing my ID for the bartender. The young man preparing the drinks offered me a kind smile before swiftly producing my gin and tonic.

  “I’d make sure that’s not a fake ID! She certainly doesn’t look old enough to be drinking,” the employee continued to joke, and I turned to narrow my eyes at him.

  He smiled awkwardly, and after a moment I allowed the tension to release from my body. He wasn’t worth the argument, and he certainly wasn’t worth ruining what could be a good evening.

  “Not too young for you to sleep with though, eh, Jerry? Word around the water cooler is you got caught with your daughter’s best friend. Funny how things work out,” I said brightly, accepting my gin and tonic before slipping away from the bar. Jerry stared at me with angry eyes, but I couldn’t deny myself the small victorious feeling that welled up inside me.

  “Elizabeth Beck, what in the world has gotten into you!? You come back here and apologize to Jerry right now. He’s been going through a hard time, and you have no place to judge. At least his daughter has friends, am I right, Jerry?” A familiar and obnoxious voice called out, and I turned to see my mom lingering at the bar, ordering another round of shots.

  I breathed a sigh, weighing the pros and cons of bolting away and hiding in my room for the remainder of the evening. On the positive side, I wouldn’t be stuck apologizing to my mother’s sleazy employee. On the other, my mom would never let it go if I ran away like a frightened child.

  Suddenly, a realization swept over me. I tossed back the remainder of my drink before taking long strides in the direction of the bar. Martha Beck, CEO, looked at me expectantly, and I set down my glass before waving for the bartender to refill it.

  “Mom, we need to talk.”

  Chapter Two

  Paul

  In my defense, I made a valiant attempt not to lose my shit when I woke up. Late in the day, approximately two days out from Rio, and things just weren’t going my way. You’d expect a con artist to be used to things going awry, but I wasn’t your average con man. When I put my mind to it, I had a way of making things work. I had worked hard to weasel my way onto this exorbitantly expensive cruise ship, even if it was only as a performer.

  It was times like this when I thanked my deadbeat birth parents for letting me run away to the circus. Most parents wouldn’t consider it the most forward-thinking move, but mine just didn’t care enough to stop me. I wouldn’t accept anyone’s pity, though. A couple of freak show workers took me in as their own, in spite of the fact that I didn’t exactly fit in with the crowd.

  You learn a lot when your adoptive dad is the world’s strongest man, and your adoptive mom is the world’s hairiest sword swallower. They got a package deal with Ma; she was a bearded lady of many talents.

  Granted, in my travels growing up, I’d seen much hairier women who weren’t slated to work as a circus novelty. Not that I’m implying there’s anything wrong with an unshaven lady, but perhaps a little sympathy for that girl with the mustache at age thirteen, yeah? My tastes lay with the clean shaven, but beggars can’t be choosers. Fortunately, I was no beggar.

  My good looks were one of the reasons I excelled at the whole con man gig. It was easier to win people’s hearts when you were conventionally attractive, and women tended to drop their panties wherever I went. Not to brag or anything.

  In any case, my current job required a lot more than a pretty face or a ripped body. The skills I’d learned at the circus helped, sure, but you had to have your wits about you. Specifically, for this job, I’d have to find a way to get close to a crotchety old broad and get her out of her clothes.

  Well, hopefully, it wouldn’t come to getting her completely naked; I just needed that magic flash drive that hung around her neck. It didn’t pose that difficult of a task for Paul Drake, the most gorgeous entertainer any of these bored office drones had ever laid eyes on.

  That’s me, for the record. At least, for the sake of this con.

  That was another fun tidbit about being a con artist. Having the opportunity to explore your various identities, play up the most appealing parts of your personality. Or, in some cases, the least attractive. It all depended on the job, bucko, and whether you had to sweep someone off their feet or drag their head out of the clouds.

  Some may have figured me a madman, but you certainly couldn’t tell your therapist that the voices in your head served a particular purpose. Not that I could justify the price tag on a good shrink anyway—yikes.

  Back to the matter at hand: getting Martha Beck’s most valued piece of property off of her person. I knew bits and pieces about the old lady, in the sense that nearly everyone in the country had heard of her. A bit of a hard-ass when it came to getting the job done, as far as I could tell. The word was that she had a cute daughter, but as much as I’d like to think with my other head, I had to keep the one that held my brain in the game.

  I’d paid off a disgruntled former EBgen employee with some of the hauls from my last con. In exchange, he’d fed me a bit of information that wasn’t well known outside of old Martha’s closest circle of confidants. Apparently, the flash drive she wore contained some prime trade secrets that could ruin the woman if they were to get out.

  Moreover, they could put the right buyer in the position to form their own fortune 500 company. I wasn’t much of one for the business side of things, but I was sure some old codger would be willing to cough up the proper price tag. It was just a matter of getting the information, and getting away with it.

  There was just one problem with this entire con: days into the company cruise, with only two days until we hit port in Rio, I was no closer to snagging that damn flash drive than I had been in the beginning. I wasn’t one to lose my cool when it came to business, but I was getting a bit crunched for time. I would have to double down for the remainder of those final days if I had any hope of coming out with my prize.

  This was what had me frantically rummaging through my battered old suitcase the moment I woke up, trying to decide on the perfect outfit—one that screamed, “Of course I’m not here to steal your valuables.” I was charming as hell, but if the intel I’d received on this old broad was any indication, she would be hard pressed to trust someone enough to let them near her, let alone her prized possession.

  Maybe I’d have been better suited coming up with a persona for the cleaning crew, but hell, as far as I could tell, the lady never took the damn necklace off. It’d do me little good to be alone in her cabin if the drive was on her at all times. As much as I hated the thought of breaking in while the old biddy was sleeping, at this rate, I was running out of options. I was a miracle worker, but it wasn’t as if I could just snatch the thing and run
. We were on a cruise ship! In the middle of the damn ocean!

  All things considered, I was pretty stressed. Out of time and out of options, I had to cobble together some way of making this crapshoot work. I decided on a simple pair of shorts, and hell, forget the shirt. Maybe Martha wasn’t as much of a man hater as she claimed to be.

  Examining my reflection in the mirror, I ran a hand through my shaggy black hair. I had grown a stubbly goatee for the sake of this con; something about it just screamed ‘carnie.’ Hell, if I weren't so concerned with looking good, I’d have grown one of those mustaches that curled up at the ends. Not sure I’d have been able to contain my evil laughter in that case, however. It might have been a step too far.

  As I grinned at my own reflection, my ice-blue eyes shone in the low light of my room. People had accused me of wearing contacts, but that brilliant shade of blue was all natural, buddy. I ran a brush through my hair, tossing my head to make sure it was just so. I was no pampered prima donna, but a man can recognize when he’s a looker, can’t he?

  Satisfied, I slipped out of my room and began making long strides in the direction of the entertainment hall. The gig was some frilly circus number, lots of trapeze and death-defying drops. It was pretty to look at, sure, but I’m sure the passengers would have much rather seen my fire dancing or sword swallowing; something that might actually shake them out of their happy hour fog.