Читать книгу Confessions Of A Pregnant Cinderella - Эбби Грин - Страница 11

LAZARO SANCHEZ SURVEYED the glittering ballroom of one of Madrid’s most exclusive hotels. A hotel that he owned. Satisfaction and anticipation coursed through his veins. This moment…was huge. His whole life had been building to this, to standing here in front of his peers.

But they hadn’t always been his peers. These people wouldn’t have recognised him as the semi-feral teenager who’d roamed and lived on the streets. Hustling to make a few euros by washing car windows at traffic lights; showing tourists how to beat the queues into museums and galleries; eating out of bins when he couldn’t afford to buy food.

The familiar burn of injustice and rage burned low in his gut when he recalled those desperate days. He’d run away from his last foster home when the father had cornered Lazaro in the bedroom and started taking his trousers down.

Lazaro had jumped out of the first-floor window.

From the age of thirteen he’d fended for himself.

The cruel irony of it all was that Lazaro hadn’t been orphaned, or abused by his parents so badly that he’d been removed from their care, like other kids who’d ended up in the foster homes. He’d been abandoned into the system by his parents. And, actually, his father was in this very room right now. Not that he would ever look him in the eye. Or admit he was his father—even under duress.

As for his mother, he’d only ever seen her a handful of times in his life, from a distance.

The reason for that was because Lazaro Sanchez was the illegitimate result of an affair between two members of two of Spain’s oldest and most respected and revered families. The closest you could get to royalty without being royal.

The only way he’d found out about his parentage had been through a mixture of fluke and happenstance. A careless social worker had left his file unattended one day and he’d seen his birth certificate and memorised his parents’ names. When he’d investigated them afterwards nothing had come up. They were fake names.

Then, while changing foster homes at the age of about twelve, he’d been dozing in the back of the car as two social workers had driven him to the new home. He could still remember seeing one of them glance behind, to check if he was sleeping, and then, as if she hadn’t been able to sit on the information any longer, whisper to the other social worker the rumour about who his real parents were.

Lazaro had clamped his eyes shut completely and frozen solid in the back of the car. Even at that age he’d heard of the Torres family and the Salvadors. They were two of Spain’s most important and wealthy dynasties, with lineages stretching back to medieval times.

When he’d had a chance he’d looked them up for more information. And even though it had been just a rumour he’d known as soon as he’d seen a picture of his father when he’d been Lazaro’s age. They were mirror images. And he’d inherited his mother’s unusual green eyes.

He’d taken to stalking the palatial properties belonging to the Torres family and the Salvadors in an exclusive suburb of Madrid. Watching them come and go. Seeing his half-siblings. One in particular was an older boy on his father’s side—Gabriel Torres. For some reason, Lazaro had fixated on him…perhaps because they were relatively close in age.

One day he’d seen them all sitting in a restaurant in the centre of Madrid, celebrating his half-brother Gabriel’s birthday.

Lazaro had waited outside, and when they’d emerged—the women wearing designer dresses and dripping in diamonds, the men in bespoke suits—Lazaro had darted forward and planted himself in front of his father and Gabriel.

‘I’m your son!’ he’d announced, shaking with adrenalin as he’d looked up at the towering man, aware of his half-brother beside him, looking at him as if he was an alien.

It had all happened so fast. Men had appeared from nowhere and Lazaro had found himself face-down in the dirt in an alleyway beside the restaurant. His father had hauled him up by the hair and spat into his face.

‘You are no son of mine—and if you ever come near me or my family again you will pay for it.’

That was when Lazaro’s ambition had been born. The ambition to one day be in a position where he was literally touching shoulders with them. Where they would have to look him in the eye. Where he would taunt them with his presence—with the knowledge that he had thrived and survived in spite of their attempts to excise him from their family histories.

And here he was, in the same room as his father and his half-brother Gabriel—with whom he was embroiled in a bitter and ruthless battle to take over one of Madrid’s oldest indoor market buildings and redevelop it into a new space.

His half-brother Gabriel still refused to acknowledge that Lazaro could be his brother even though—

‘Lazaro?’

He looked to one side to see the reason why both his father, his half-brother and other peripheral members of both his birth families were all in the same room.

Leonora Flores de la Vega.

With her exquisitely beautiful face, long black hair, dark grey eyes and a willowy body that curved in and out in all the right places, she was arguably one of the most beautiful women in Spain.

And one of the most well-connected.

Her family might have no money—in fact that was one of the reasons for the marriage—but their name was as old and venerated as the Torres or Salvador families. And that was priceless.

Hence the reason why Lazaro wanted to marry her. It would bring him another step closer to the inner circle that had always been shut to him, no matter how many millions he’d made. It would bring him another step closer to making his family squirm. Another step closer to ultimate acceptance.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You look very fierce.’

He forced a smile and held out a hand to Leonora. She slipped her hand into his and Lazaro closed his fingers around hers. Nothing. Not even a twinge of response. But then he wasn’t marrying her for their chemistry. He was marrying her for something much more enduring. Securing his own legacy. Forcing those who would ignore him to acknowledge him and respect him. Finally.

‘Yes, fine…just a little preoccupied.’

He saw her glance across the room to someone or something, and a faint tinge of colour came into her cheeks. She bit her lip.

‘Are you okay?’ Lazaro asked.

She always seemed so composed, unruffled, it was strange to see her suddenly look a little flustered. Distracted.

She looked back at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

He tightened his fingers around hers. ‘I’m glad you agreed to marry me, Leonora. I think we can have a good marriage. I think we can be…happy.’

A shadow seemed to cross her face, and her smile faltered for a second, but then she said brightly, ‘Yes. I hope so.’

Lazaro realised at that moment that he hardly knew this woman. He’d sought her out because of who she was, and they’d dated a few times—chaste dates. He liked her. And it was no secret that her family were in dire financial straits. He’d seen an opportunity to silence the critics of his playboy reputation and move that bit closer to where he ultimately wanted to be.

When he’d suggested she marry him, and in so doing pay off her family’s debts, she’d said yes.

He let go of Leonora’s hand and slipped his arm around her back, resting a hand on her hip. An intimate move. A proprietorial move. And still nothing. Not even a trip in his pulse.

He told himself again that attraction wasn’t everything. Lust was a base emotion. No one in this milieu married for lust. He was living proof that they married for other, far more practical reasons and kept their lust hidden. Secret. He wasn’t like them. He had more control.

Suddenly his conscience pricked hard and a picture formed in his mind. A memory, to be precise. A memory that had been haunting him with increasing and irritating frequency. As if the closer he got to making a commitment to Leonora the louder his conscience got.

Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel guilty.

Don’t you? asked a snide voice. So why can’t you stop thinking about her?

‘Her’ was a woman he’d met just over three months ago. In another city. Before he’d become engaged to Leonora. A petite woman. With long, unruly red hair. Freckles covering nearly every inch of her pale skin. Small plump breasts with tight pink nipples. A surprisingly curvy body. Russet curls at the juncture of her legs. He’d spread her there, opening her up to him, her glistening folds…

‘Lazaro—’

He looked at Leonora, shocked at the vividness of that memory and the effect it was having on his body. Which was galling when the stunningly beautiful flesh-and-blood woman beside him couldn’t arouse even a heightened sense of awareness.

She was smiling, but he could see it was forced. ‘You’re hurting me.’

Instantly Lazaro became aware of his hand, digging into the flesh at her hip. He relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’

A sense of shame engulfed him. And anger. That woman had been no one. His conscience pricked. Okay, so he’d wanted her more than he could remember wanting any other woman in a long time, but it had just been a moment out of time. In another city. Where people didn’t see him and whisper behind his back.

‘Isn’t that Lazaro Sanchez? They say he used to forage in the streets for food. Didn’t he used to be in a gang?’

That woman—the stranger—hadn’t had the faintest clue who he was. And it had been refreshing. It had made the intense and immediate attraction between them even more compelling. And explosive.

She’d been a virgin. A virgin. The words resounded in his head, still having the power to shock him. He hadn’t expected that. And it had led to the most erotic experience of his life…

Leonora was handing Lazaro a glass of champagne now, and he shook his head slightly, as much to rid himself of unwanted and disturbing memories as anything else.

‘Your advisors are making motions that it’s time to make the announcement. Ready?’

Lazaro excised all thoughts, memories and images of that woman from his mind and looked into the eyes of his future wife. The woman who would open the last doors for him into a world that had been denied him from the day of his birth.

‘Yes,’ he said, clinking his glass to hers with a melodic chime. ‘Let’s do it.’

Skye O’Hara was feeling nauseous. Literally. And she also felt sick with nerves. Not a good combination. A cold clammy sweat lay over her skin, and it had only got worse since she’d slipped into the jaw-droppingly beautiful ballroom, with its gold-panelled walls and massive crystal chandeliers.

She’d never seen so many beautiful tall people in her life. Or such finery. Glittering sheaths of dresses. Tuxedoes. Acres of smooth honey-hued skin, making her feel even more pale and wan. Golden lights everywhere. It even smelled exclusive. The kind of scent that couldn’t be bottled. It was wealth.

She’d dressed in a white shirt and black skirt to try and fade in with the staff. Put her unruly hair up in a tidy bun on her head. No way would she have had the wherewithal even to remotely attempt to look like one of these people. For a start she was about a foot too small, and the only redhead in sight. And she had freckles. A physical imperfection people like this would eliminate on sight, no doubt.

She craned her head, going up on tiptoe to try and see further into the room. To see where he was.

Her hand went to her belly where the reason for much of her nausea resided.

And then she saw him in the distance. How could she not? He stood head and shoulders even above these giants. His dark blond hair was still just the right side of too long, and still messy. Stubble emphasised the hard line of his jaw. And his mouth…

She couldn’t see it from here but she could remember it. Sculpted and firm. Hot. She remembered how it had felt on her bare skin…closing over her…

A gap formed in the crowd and now she could see all of him.

Her heart pounded as she drank in every long and lean inch of his six-foot-three-inch frame. Tall and broad-shouldered. Golden. Gorgeous. The sexiest man she’d ever seen. The first man she’d ever thought of as sexy. And consequently the first man she’d ever slept with.

He was wearing a white tuxedo jacket with a white bow-tie. Black trousers. He stood out effortlessly…a little bit different from everyone else. As if he couldn’t contain some elemental part of himself even in this civilised milieu.

Elemental. That was what it had been like that night. Wild. Visceral. Unbelievable. Unforgettable.

Skye’s hand tightened on her belly. Unforgettable in more ways than one.

A woman came up to her with a stern look on her face. Staff, not a guest, wearing a black uniform dress. Just as Skye was about to panic that she’d been caught out, the woman handed her a tray full of glasses of champagne and told her to stop wasting time. Relief flooded Skye. Her disguise had worked.

She took a deep breath and started to move closer through the crowd to where he stood. Lazaro Sanchez. She’d looked him up on the internet the day after their night together—and nearly had a heart attack when she’d realised that he was a seriously wealthy and influential financier, with an extensive real-estate portfolio. A household name in his native Spain.

And he was also a renowned playboy. There had been acres of photos of him with a veritable stream of beautiful women. It had stung more than a little to know that she’d been naive enough to fall for his smooth charm. That what had happened between them must have merely been a blip in his normal routine. A forgettable night among many. And it had stung even more that she didn’t resemble any of his usual women, so evidently he’d only slept with her because she’d been a bit…different.

And now… Now he was about to announce his engagement to the most beautiful woman in the world. Skye could see her standing beside Lazaro, with his arm around her waist.

They looked good together—both tall, lean. Her dark hair was sleek and pulled back, and she wore a red strapless dress. A slim classic column that clung to every perfectly proportioned curve and oozed sophistication and elegance.

For a second Skye faltered. She put the tray down on a nearby table for fear of dropping it. Should she have come here to do this?

She lamented again the fact that she hadn’t been able to get to Lazaro before this event, but it would have been easier to get a message to the Pope. She’d been blocked and shut out at every turn.

What right did she have to interrupt this momentous moment? The announcement of his engagement to this Glamazon?

Because you’re pregnant with his baby and he needs to know, reminded a cool voice in her head.

Just then there was the sound of someone tapping on glass, which cut through the buzz of chat in the room. Everyone fell silent and turned to where Lazaro and his fiancée were standing on a raised dais.

Skye felt even more sick now. Had he been involved with her when they’d slept together three months ago? Had he known he would be getting engaged?

She saw the cordon of security men near the couple. Fearsome-looking individuals. Skye could see what would happen—they’d announce their news, and suddenly they’d be thronged, and then they’d be whisked off to some secret location.

This was her only chance to get his attention. She had to take it. She couldn’t have it on her conscience that he didn’t know she was pregnant. That their one amazing night together had had repercussions.

And his fiancée deserved to know the kind of man she was marrying, if they had already been involved while he’d been seducing Skye in another city.

Lazaro cleared his throat. He savoured the few seconds before he spoke, aware of every eye turned their way. His father, pretending he didn’t know this was his illegitimate son, about to make an announcement. His half-brother Gabriel was scowling and looking even more brooding and forbidding than he usually did.

‘Thank you all for coming here this evening…’

Lazaro looked at Leonora and smiled. She wasn’t looking at him, though, she was looking into the crowd, slightly transfixed. There was a flush in her cheeks. He exerted a tiny bit of pressure on her waist and she glanced at him and smiled. But it was strained.

Lazaro ignored the prickling sensation over his skin. Last-minute jitters.

‘I know it’s hardly a surprise to many of you, as it’s already appeared in some papers…’ here there was a ripple of laughter ‘…but it gives me great pleasure to formally announce that Leonora Flores de la Vega has consented to be my wife. Invitations to the wedding will be sent out shortly.’

Lazaro lifted his glass of champagne, about to make a toast to his future wife, when a voice shattered the expectant hush.

‘Wait! Stop!’

It took Lazaro a second to realise that people weren’t looking at them any more. They were all looking to his left-hand side at something. Or someone.

He glanced around to see that two of his security team were holding back a woman. A petite, red-haired woman. Who looked familiar. Too familiar. He noticed the details dispassionately, as shock flooded his system to see her here, not just in his memory.

Her blue eyes were huge and slightly wild-looking. Her hair was up in a bun, with tendrils of red and gold falling down around her heart-shaped face. Determined chin. Small straight nose. Full mouth currently in a thin line. White shirt…black skirt.

He could see the white of her bra under the material. The press of her breasts against the fabric. He’d cupped those breasts in his hands, rubbed his thumbs across her deeply sensitive nipples. She’d shuddered against him when he’d touched her there.

Heat flooded his body.

Suddenly the shock galvanised him into action. He let go of Leonora and made a move towards the woman, as if he knew what was about to happen and thought he could stop it. But, no. Before he could reach her, her voice rang out again—loud and clear. The fact that she spoke in Spanish was a detail he didn’t even absorb fully.

‘You need to know something. I’m pregnant. With your child.’

For a long moment nothing seemed to happen. There was a shocked stillness in the air and everyone was frozen. Even the security men holding her arms seemed to go slack.

She was looking directly at Lazaro, and suddenly it was as if everyone else had disappeared and it was just them in the room.

She said in a quieter voice, in English, ‘It’s true. I’m pregnant…and it’s yours.’

Skye O’Hara. That was her name. She’d been a waitress in the restaurant where he’d had dinner after a business meeting in Dublin. He’d noticed her as soon as he’d gone in—something about her, the way she moved and interacted with people, had caught his attention. Which was unusual, because nothing much distracted Lazaro these days. But there had been something very refreshing about her. Open. Unaffected. Natural.

She’d been dressed much as she was now. Her clothes utterly banal. Not designed in any way to entice a man. And yet she had. With her petite figure and soft curves.

She’d served him. Pulling a pen out of the bun on the top of her head, flipping over her orders pad to a new page before looking at him. And that had been the moment. Zing. Lazaro had felt it like a thunderbolt. Instant heat and sexual awareness.

And so had she, judging by the flush on her cheeks and the way her eyes had widened.

Lazaro’s razor-sharp brain kicked into gear. There were members of the press in this room. His doing. To ensure maximum coverage of his moment of triumph. If he instructed his men to kick this woman out on the street the press would hunt her down, and he could already see the headlines and the lurid sob-story.

He had no doubt she was just capitalising on the fact that she’d realised who he was. She was on the make. He needed to contain this situation, defuse it and salvage what he could of this evening.

He put down his glass and stepped down from the dais and went over to her, taking her arm in his hand. It felt very slender. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’

She went white. He ignored the prick of his conscience. He’d forgotten how petite she was.

She stuttered. ‘I came…to…to tell you… I couldn’t reach you any other way…we didn’t…you didn’t…we didn’t exchange numbers…’

He’d given her his card when he’d asked her to join him for a drink. But she’d left it in the wastebasket in the hotel room the following morning.

Her show of independence the morning after—her determination to go even after he’d offered to order up breakfast—had obviously been an act.

He could still see her, backing away in her skinny jeans and a loose jumper falling off one shoulder. Her hair down and wild. She’d looked like an art student. She’d looked thoroughly bedded. And he’d wanted her again.

He’d just come out of the shower with a towel around his waist to find her leaving. ‘Where are you going?’ he’d asked.

She’d looked up as she’d slipped on her shoes. He could still recall how her eyes had devoured him, lingering on his chest. Making him hard again.

‘I should leave… It’s okay. I know how these things go. I know this was just a one-off. You’re not from here.’ She’d waved a hand at the very rumpled bed and a flush had tinged her cheeks. ‘And I really wasn’t expecting this…’

She’d been a virgin.

Lazaro had felt a moment of panic at the thought of her slipping out through the door and never seeing her again. Impulsively he’d said, ‘Stay. I’ll order breakfast. There’s no need to rush.’

She’d looked torn for a moment. And then she’d shaken her head. ‘No, I have things to do. I have to leave.’

She’d turned around and walked to the door and then stopped and looked back over her shoulder. Her hair had been like a bright flame down her back.

‘Just…thank you. I wasn’t expecting what happened to happen. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone like you. But it was lovely.’

And then she’d slipped out through the door and Lazaro had stood there, stunned and very aroused, for long minutes. ‘It was lovely.’ Not something any woman had ever said to him before after a night of passion so intense he was surprised they hadn’t burnt the suite to ashes.

That memory mocked him now. It had all been an act. Clearly. And this had been her endgame. He’d been an idiot.

He took his hand off her arm and spoke to his men. ‘Take her to the office and keep her there until I give further instructions.’

He didn’t look at her again, just turned away towards the crowd. And, to Leonora, who was looking at him with wide eyes, cheeks leached of colour. He stepped back up onto the dais, not sure which fire to put out first.

He faced the crowd and held up his hands, forcing a smile. ‘I’m sorry for that interruption. It’s being dealt with.’

He was about to say that there were no grounds for what she’d said—‘I’m pregnant…and it’s yours’—but then he recalled that exquisite moment when he’d been poised to thrust inside her tempting body and he’d realised he wasn’t protected.

‘Are you protected?’ he’d asked her.

She’d said breathily, ‘It’s fine…please, just don’t stop.’

Self-recrimination blasted him. She could be telling the truth.

He looked at Leonora, who was backing away now, staring at him as if he was a monster. He stretched out a hand. ‘Leonora, please…let me explain.’

She stopped moving. Her face was pale. ‘Is it true?’

Lazaro couldn’t deny that it might be true, so he said nothing.

Leonora interpreted his silence. She shook her head. ‘I can’t agree to marry you—not now.’ She cast a wild-eyed look around them and then said with quiet desperation, ‘How could you do this to me? In front of all of these people?’

She turned and stepped down from the dais and all but ran to the nearest exit.

There was no sound at all for a long moment. And then came a slow hand-clap from the crowd.

Lazaro turned around to see his half-brother Gabriel moving forward through the crowd. Clapping. A smirk on his face. Lazaro’s hands bunched into fists at his sides.

‘I really didn’t expect this evening to be so entertaining, Sanchez. I have to hand it to you. If anyone knows how to make a reputation sink even lower into the gutter it’s you. But, frankly, I’ve better things to be doing than witnessing your lurid domestic dramas.’

Before Lazaro could articulate a response Gabriel strode out of the room, in the same direction as Leonora. And, as much as he wanted to go after him and punch that smirk off his face, Lazaro knew he couldn’t. Not here, not now.

He turned back to face his audience. The crowd he had assembled to share this moment of ultimate acceptance. No one would meet his eye except one man. His father, at the back of the room. He had a mocking look on his face as if to say, You tried and you failed to be one of us.

This moment, which should have been the pinnacle of his success, had turned into a farce. All because of a woman. And himself. Because for one night he’d let himself be ruled by lust and had thrown caution to the wind.

He should have known, after the life he’d lived, that he would suffer the consequences for any moment of weakness.

These people could afford to be weak. But not him. Not ever him. And he’d just proved that his desires were as base as theirs…that he didn’t, in fact, have more control.

Skye sat in a square box of a room. More like a storage cupboard, really. The burly man who had put her in here had just brought her small knapsack and her coat from where she’d left them in the cloakroom. She’d come straight here from the airport.

The adrenalin was still pumping through her system. Okay, so she’d got her message across. She hadn’t intended on the dramatics, but it had been impossible to try and contact Lazaro Sanchez from Dublin. He had more rings of security and assistants than a head of state. And at every step she’d been stonewalled.

It hadn’t helped that she’d thrown away the card he’d handed her when he’d asked her to join him for a drink. She’d not seen the point in keeping it, and hadn’t wanted to torture herself by knowing she had his phone number.

She’d been searching on the internet for another way to try and contact him when she’d seen the news that he was due to announce his engagement at an exclusive gathering at the Esmeralda Hotel—one of Madrid’s finest.

Before she’d lost her nerve she’d booked a cheap return flight. She’d travelled in her work uniform, hoping that it might help her blend in with staff. Which had worked only too well.

He was to be engaged. Yet he’d slept with her.

She’d always thought she was a good judge of character, but evidently lust had rewired her normal instincts that night three months ago.

He’d asked her to stay for breakfast the following morning and she’d been so tempted. He’d been standing there in nothing but a short towel. Massive chest bare and still damp from the shower. Dark hair dusting his pectorals and then narrowing into a line that dissected his six-pack before disappearing under the towel.

Skye stood up, suddenly restless. And hot. Thankfully the nausea had subsided slightly. Her morning sickness was acute at the moment, and mainly in the early part of the day, but the doctor had told her it should subside soon. If she was lucky.

Pregnant. She stopped pacing and put her hand on her belly.

She’d tried to contact her mother to no avail. She was somewhere in India at an ashram, with little or no communications. Not an unusual scenario. But even without her mother’s advice Skye hadn’t felt a moment’s hesitation about keeping the baby.

Even though, she’d always wanted a different life for herself than she’d had as a child. Being dragged all around Europe as her mother had followed one whim after another. Or one lover after another. She’d had Skye when she was eighteen, and most of the time Skye had felt more like the adult than her bohemian but very lovable mother. Yet here she was, only a few years older than her mother had been, and quite possibly about to become a single mother too.

She’d always vowed that if and when she had children she would be in a committed relationship and their existence wouldn’t be rootless. It would be secure and stable.

Suddenly the door opened again and Skye whirled around, her heart jumping into her throat. But it wasn’t him—it was the burly security guard.

‘You can come with me now.’

As much as Skye might have preferred not to go, she knew she had to see this through.

The man led her to a staff elevator and they ascended to the top floor. The doors opened onto an unremarkable corridor and the guard opened an unremarkable door. He led her into a small utilitarian kitchen and then into a very plush suite, with jaw-dropping floor-to-ceiling windows and views over Madrid.

This must be the penthouse suite, and she’d just been brought through the service kitchen.

Her face grew hot with humiliation.

The man led her to a vast open-plan space, with couches dotted around glass coffee tables. Vast canvases of modern art hung on walls. Low lighting imbued the space with golden light but made it no less intimidating.

And there he was. With his back to her. No jacket. Just his shirt and trousers.

He turned around, but Skye couldn’t see his expression from where she was. Probably a good thing. She could see that his top shirt button was open and his bow-tie hung askew, as if pulled apart roughly.

He dismissed the guard with a few curt words and Skye heard the door snick shut behind her.

And then, in a lethally soft voice which was worse than if he’d shouted at her, he said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’