Читать книгу His Pregnant Christmas Princess - Leah Ashton, Leah Ashton - Страница 10

ANA TOMASICH, PRINCESS OF VELA ADA, was gripping her wedding bouquet so tightly that her freshly manicured fingernails bit painfully into the skin of her palm.

But that was a good thing. That small sting of pain gave her focus. It silenced everything in her surroundings—her bridesmaids, who giggled at the foot of the stone steps that led into the church, the yells of the paparazzi, who stood behind specially erected barriers, and the constant click of their cameras. The hollow, tinny sounds from a row of flagpoles with flapping ropes and Vela Ada flags, and somewhere in the distance seagulls calling as they circled above the nearby beach.

In fact, the only thing that pain didn’t silence was that soft, terribly polite voice she’d been ignoring for so long. The little voice inside her, standing square in front of her subconscious—the one she’d so determinedly pretended didn’t exist.

Until now.

Now, in this new, perfect silence, that voice was loud.

Loud, and calm and absolutely, irrefutably, certain:

This is a mistake.

The sting in her palm eased. Her fingers, so tight and firm, loosened.

And in the silence—in the only moment Ana could remember feeling in control since she’d discovered she was a princess—she let her bouquet fall to the ground.

She imagined she heard it hit the footpath, but that was impossible.

Because, of course, it wasn’t really silent.

Now she heard the noise. All the noise, and then even more noise, when, rather than retrieving her bouquet—as if dropping it had been an accident—she gave it a gentle kick to dislodge it from her satin-clad toes.

Her bridesmaids—colleagues from her old life at the library—hurried towards her, their faces matching studies of concern.

But she just shook her head, held up her hand—she wanted them to stay put—and turned and got back into the vintage Daimler she’d only just exited, slamming the door behind her.

Her driver—one of the palace drivers—caught her gaze in the rear-vision mirror.

His gaze ever professional, he simply asked a question: ‘Where to?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Not here. Anywhere but here.’

She swallowed as the gravity of what she’d just done began to descend upon her shoulders.

Yet she had no doubts.

This was the right decision.

‘Fast,’ she added.

And with a satisfying screech of tyres her driver complied.

* * *

Hours later, the Vela Ada royal family’s private jet landed at a small airport somewhere in Northern Italy. Ana didn’t know exactly where, and she really didn’t care. It was an irrelevant detail: being somewhere far from home was her number one priority.

Far from home, very far from the media and far from Petar.

Petar.

She could just imagine his fury once he’d realised he’d been left at the altar…

Actually, come to think of it, she couldn’t.

As she was hastily rushed through passport checks and customs, far from where all the non-dignitaries had to queue, she digested the realisation that she actually couldn’t say if Petar was the type of guy to shout and yell, or to be totally stoic, to try to cover for her, or blame her. She had no idea at all.

He certainly wouldn’t have expected Ana to be a runaway bride. To be fair, Ana hadn’t expected it either.

But she would have expected the man she was going to marry to notice she’d not been quite herself as the wedding had approached. She hadn’t said anything, but surely Petar should have known. Surely he should have noticed she was saying the right things but deep down inside didn’t really believe any of it. Shouldn’t the person who loved you notice when things weren’t right, even if you hadn’t entirely realised it yourself?

Well, Ana had no actual personal experience to base that on, but she had a pretty good idea that was what love was about. She’d seen proper love before: in her grandparents, her friends. In the movies, even. And she and Petar did not have it. She’d been an idiot to tell herself otherwise.

So here she was.

She hadn’t really travelled much since Prince Goran had died. She’d initially felt rather fraudulent travelling as an international dignitary. She had, after all, spent twenty-nine years as a commoner, and certainly not a wealthy one. She was normal, and more used to budget airlines and cheap rentals than private jets, a security detail and VIP treatment.

But she was grateful for it now. Thanks to hastily managed diplomatic discussions, no one knew she was even in Italy, beyond trusted palace staff and select members of the Italian government. No one would be able to find her here. Not Petar. Not the media.

She was in a car now, white and nondescript. A member of her palace security detail was driving; another sat in the passenger seat. That was it—just the two.

She’d never had a full entourage of security personnel, unlike King Lukas and Queen Petra, or Lukas’s brother, Prince Marko, and Marko’s new wife, Jasmine. Not that Ana minded. She was absolutely comfortable with her status as a second-tier royal—the status she would’ve held even if Prince Goran had acknowledged her at birth. Partly because she was only the child of the late King Josip’s brother, but also because Prince Goran had never really had a high profile in Vela Ada.

Was it because after his brother, King Josip, had his two children—Lukas and Marko—he’d felt the sting of being devalued to a very unlikely heir to the throne, after being the ‘spare’ for much of his life? Or maybe he’d been grateful not to be in the public eye? Ana had no idea. Her mother had never spoken about the type of man Goran had been—Ana suspected because her mother believed if you had nothing nice to say, you said nothing at all.

‘You feeling okay, Your Highness?’

Ana met her driver’s gaze in the rear-vision mirror and nodded. When his gaze swung back to the road, Ana’s lingered on the mirror, and she realised the wedding make-up she still wore was smudged. She rubbed under her eyes in a half-hearted attempt to fix her appearance. But really it was a wasted effort. She was out of her wedding dress, at least, but she still wore her fancy bridal underwear beneath her jumper, coat and jeans. Her hair was still in an elaborate low bun too, although she’d tugged out the diamond-encrusted combs, causing loose strands of hair to hang haphazardly.

Anyway, did it really matter if she looked terrible? She’d just jilted her fiancé—she probably deserved to.

For the first time since she’d dropped her bouquet, she felt tears prickle. Annoyed, Ana moved her attention to the view outside the car.

All she could see was darkness. It was late November, and the sun had long set. Wherever they were, there were minimal street lights, and the sliver of a moon gave little away.

‘Your Highness?’

This time it was the guard in the passenger seat. He was looking at her left hand, which she realised she was tapping loudly against the door handle. Did he think she was going to throw herself out of the moving car or something?

The idea made her grin, but her guard’s hand moved to his seat belt, as if he was planning to throw himself across the luxury sedan to save her. She stilled her hand.

‘Oprosti. I’m fine—really. Just a bit restless.’

He nodded but looked unconvinced.

Ana closed her eyes, resting her head against the window. She still felt the guard’s eyes on her. He was worrying about her.

As if she deserved someone whose entire job was to worry about her. Her. Ana Tomasich. Absolutely normal, no more interesting than anyone else, Ana Tomasich. She was a librarian, for crying out loud.

A librarian and a princess.

Princess Ana of Vela Ada.

Would the title ever sit comfortably on her shoulders? She couldn’t imagine it. It just didn’t seem to fit.

In fact, she’d been so certain it didn’t fit when she’d first opened that letter from her father and seen what he’d done—how he’d finally acknowledged her birth and asked King Lukas to give her her ‘rightful’ title after his death—that she’d seriously considered declining.

She’d liked her life. She’d loved her career, her friends, her apartment. Why would she give all that up? And why would she put herself forward to be scrutinised and criticised? She knew there was a part of the Vela Ada population who’d be unwilling to embrace an illegitimate princess. She knew that her life would be different. And while she’d have money, and opportunities she could never have dreamed of, she would lose her privacy, and be giving up the life she’d lived for twenty-nine years.

In many ways her decision should’ve been easy—an easy No, thanks!—because it had been more than the practicalities of her decision that had loomed large for Ana. It had been the context of this ‘gift’ she’d been presented with.

Because when it came down to it, her father had waited until his death to acknowledge her.

And that made her feel incredibly small.

Her father had felt so strongly that he didn’t want to deal with her—that he couldn’t be bothered dealing with her—that he’d left her all alone to deal with this decision herself. He hadn’t even bothered to ask her on his deathbed. He’d waited until he was gone. He’d kept all the answers to the questions Ana hadn’t even known she wanted to ask from her. For ever.

So, yes. Part of her had wanted to tell the ghost of her father to shove his decision to make her a princess up his—

Anyway.

She hadn’t.

She hadn’t because this wasn’t just about her. Her mother had fought for years for the palace to acknowledge Ana’s existence, and she hadn’t done it quietly. She’d paused in her crusade only when Ana had started kindergarten, when she’d been concerned about how Ana might be treated with such a scandal surrounding her. Her mother had always assumed Ana would pursue her father herself when she was older, but to her mother’s surprise—and disappointment—that had never been a consideration for Ana. For Ana it was clear-cut—her father didn’t want her. What was the point?

So when the decision to become a princess had so unexpectedly arisen, Ana’s answer really hadn’t been about what she wanted. It had been about her mother—it had been a public redemption twenty-nine years in the making.

And despite all that had happened since—the way her life had been turned upside down, leading to that moment outside that church—she couldn’t say she regretted her decision.

But it still felt super-strange to be addressed as Your Highness.

The car slowed and turned off the smooth bitumen they’d been travelling on for well over an hour. Its wheels now crunched over gravel, its headlights the only illumination, as there hadn’t been street lights for many kilometres. Tall trees flanked the narrow road—a driveway, maybe?—but as the car took twists and turns and climbed gradually higher Ana saw no clues to her destination.

Which was a good thing, Ana thought. The more secluded, the more private, the more remote the location the palace could find, the better.

Ever since she’d left that church all she’d wanted was to be away. Far away from her terrible decision to accept Petar’s proposal instead of coming to her senses months ago. Or, better yet, coming to her senses when they’d first met, and she’d said yes to a date purely because he’d been gorgeous and charming and it had seemed crazy not to, rather than because she’d felt a spark of attraction.

But now that she was away—whisked off to a mountain in Northern Italy, no less—what did she do?

The car rolled to a stop.

A modern single-story house constructed mostly of windows sat just above the car, on the slope of a hill. It looked expensive and architecturally designed—the type of house you’d see on one of those fancy home-building TV shows that always go over budget. It was lit by a row of subtle lights that edged the eaves, and a brighter light flooded the entrance and the wooden steps cut into the hill that led to the front door.

There, at the top of the steps, stood a man.

Well, ‘stood’ was being generous. Really, he lounged, with one shoulder propped against the door frame and his long jean-clad legs crossed at the ankle.

He didn’t move as her guards exited the car and opened Ana’s door.

He didn’t even move as Ana herself approached the bottom of the steps. He just stood there—lounged there—and studied her.

It said something about how much her life had changed that Ana noticed he didn’t immediately jump to attention in her presence.

Oddly, it was kind of nice to have someone not clambering to impress her. Not treating her, baselessly, as more special than everybody else.

He did move, though, just before Ana climbed the first step.

He moved effortlessly, fluidly, like an athlete or a—what was it? A panther?

At that ridiculous idea Ana smiled for the first time that day. For the first time in days.

And by the time the man had swiftly descended the steps to greet her she was still smiling.

He met her gaze, taking in her smile. Then, for a moment, he smiled back.

He had a fantastic smile—a smile that made a face that seconds ago she’d subconsciously classified as just nice-looking to become handsome. With his slightly floppy hair, several days’ stubble and rough-hewn cheekbones, he became really handsome, actually.

From nowhere, a blush flooded Ana’s cheeks and an unmistakeable stomach-flipping jolt of attraction took over her body.

Then the man’s smile fell away. In fact, it totally disappeared, as if it had never been there in the first place.

Shame warred with those still un-ignorable tingles that hadn’t gone anywhere. What sort of woman jilts her fiancé at the altar, then has the hots for a total stranger five minutes later?

She straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling totally aware of the elaborate lacy underwear she’d put on just hours ago for another man. It itched and chafed against her perfidiously heated skin.

Ana’s smile had fallen away now too. The man looked at her with a gaze that was slightly bored, or inconvenienced. It was too dark out here for Ana to make out the colour of his eyes, but they were light. His hair was too. Even in the darkness it contrasted with the black of his coat. He must be blond, or his hair must be the lightest shade of brown.

He was tall too, Ana realised. She was wearing flat-heeled boots, but she was still slightly above average height for a woman, and yet she only came up to his shoulder. He was easily an inch or two over six foot. And broad. His winter clothing added breadth, but those shoulders weren’t just the result of good tailoring.

She sensed him taking in her appearance: her camel-coloured coat, her chequered scarf, her jeans, her boots. And her dishevelled dark brown hair. Her messed-up make-up.

Maybe it was her embarrassment at the state she was in that made her snap a question at him:

‘Who are you?’

He blinked. ‘Žao mi je, ne govorim hrvatski,’ he said carefully, and in a foreign accent.

I’m sorry, I don’t speak Croatian.

Vela Ada’s native language was actually a unique Slavic dialect, but it borrowed heavily from neighbouring Croatia.

Usually she would’ve appreciated the effort to speak her language, but tonight she was just too tired—emotionally and physically exhausted—and too sensitive to the bored judgment she could still see in the man’s gaze.

‘Who…’ she said in English, in the most regal tone she could muster, ‘are…’ a long, pointed pause ‘…you?’