A Royal Baby For Christmas. Scarlet Wilson
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five minutes from Teddy’s and had the most amazing garden with a pink cherry blossom tree at the bottom of it, and a little paved area at the back for sitting.
It was just like the house she’d dreamed of as a child. The house where she and her husband and children would stay and live happily ever after.
She sighed and put her head in her hands.
She was pregnant. Pregnant to Seb, the liar.
It made her insides twist and curl. She’d never quite worked out when he’d realised who she was, while she’d spent the weekend in blissful ignorance.
A weekend all the while holed up in the most beautiful mountain chalet-style house.
The days had been joyful. She’d never felt an attraction like it—immediate, powerful and totally irresistible. Seb had made her feel like the only woman in the world and for two days she’d relished it.
It was too good. Too perfect. She should have known. Because nobody could ever be that perfect. Not really.
She’d been surprised by his security outside the hotel. But then, lots of businessmen had bodyguards nowadays. It wasn’t quite so unusual as it could have been.
And she hadn’t seen any of the sights of Montanari. Once they’d reached his gorgeous house hidden in the mountains, the only thing she’d seen was his naked body.
For two whole days.
She squeezed her eyes closed for a second. It hurt to remember how much she’d loved it.
How many other woman had been given the same treatment?
She shook her head and shuddered. Finding out who he really was had ruined her memories of those two wonderful days.
Of those two wonderful nights...
She pressed her hand on her non-existent bump. Oh, wow. She was pregnant by a prince.
Prince Sebastian Falco of Montanari.
Some women might like that. Some women might think that was amazing. Right now she was wondering exactly why her contraceptive pill had failed. She’d taken it faithfully every day. She hadn’t been sick. She hadn’t forgotten. This wasn’t deliberate. This absolutely wasn’t a ploy to get pregnant by a prince. But what if he thought it was?
Her mind jumped back to her house. How much maternity leave would she get? How much maternity pay would she get—would it cover her mortgage? She’d used her savings as the deposit for the house—that, and the little extra she’d had left to update the bathroom and kitchen, meant her rainy-day fund was virtually empty.
She stood up and started pacing. Who would look after her baby when she returned to work? Would she be able to return to work? She had to. She was an independent woman. She loved her career. Having a baby didn’t mean giving up the job she loved.
She rested her hand against the wall of her sitting room. Maybe someone at the hospital could give her a recommendation for a childminder? The crèche at the hospital wouldn’t be able to cater for on-calls and late night emergency surgeries. She’d need someone ultra flexible. There was so much to think about. So much to organise.
She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept jumping from one thing to the other. Oh, no—was this the pregnancy brain that women complained about?
She couldn’t have that. She didn’t have time for that. She was a neonatal cardiothoracic surgeon. She was responsible for tiny lives. She needed to be focused. She needed to have her mind on the job.
She walked through to the kitchen. The calendar was lying on the kitchen table. It was turned to April—showing when she’d had her last period. It had been left there when the realisation had hit her and she’d rushed to the pharmacy for a pregnancy test. She’d bought four.
She wouldn’t need them. She flicked forward. Last date of period, twenty-third of April. Forty weeks from then? She turned the calendar over, counting the weeks on the back. January. Her baby was due on the twenty-eighth of January.
She pushed open her back door and walked outside. The previous owners had left a bench seat, carved from an original ancient tree that had been damaged in a lightning strike years ago. She sat down and took some deep breaths.
It was a beautiful day. The flowers in her garden had all started to emerge. Fragrant red, pink and orange freesias, blue cornflowers, purple delphinium and multi-coloured peonies blossomed in pretty colours all around her, their scents permeating the air.
She smiled. The deep breathing was beginning to calm her. A baby. She was going to have a baby.
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together as a wave of determination washed over her. Baby McDonald might not have been planned. But Baby McDonald would certainly be wanted.
He or she would be loved. Be adored.
A familiar remembrance of disappointment and anger made her catch her breath. For as long as she could remember her parents had made it clear to her that she’d been a ‘mistake’. They hadn’t put it quite in as few words but the implication was always there. Two people who had never really wanted to be together but had done ‘what was right’.
Except it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. Anger and resentment had simmered from them both. The expression on her father’s face when he had left on her eighteenth birthday had told her everything she’d ever needed to know—as had the relief on her mother’s.
She’d been a burden. An unplanned-for presence.
Whether this baby was planned for or not, it would always feel loved, always feel wanted. She might not know about childcare, she might not know about maternity leave, she might not know about her mortgage—but of that one thing, she was absolutely sure.
Her brain skydived somewhere else. Folic acid. She hadn’t been taking it. She’d have to get some. Her feet moved automatically. She could grab her bag; the nearest pharmacy was only a five-minute drive. She could pick some up and start taking it immediately. As she crossed the garden her eyes squeezed shut for a second. Darn it. Folic acid was essential for normal development in a baby. She racked her brains. What had she been eating these last few weeks? Had there been any spinach? Any broccoli? She’d had some, but she just wasn’t sure how much. She’d had oranges and grapefruit. Lentils, avocados and peas.
She winced. She’d just remembered her intake of raspberries and strawberries. They’d been doused in champagne in Montanari. Alcohol. Another no-no in pregnancy.
At least she hadn’t touched a drop since her return.
Her footsteps slowed as she entered the house again. Seb. She’d need to tell him. She’d need to tell him she was expecting his baby.
A gust of cool air blew in behind her, sending every hair on her arms standing on end. How on earth would she tell him? They hadn’t exactly left things on good terms.
She sagged down onto her purple sofa for a few minutes. How did you contact a prince?
Oliver. Oliver Darrington would know. He was Seb’s friend, the obstetrician who had arranged for her to go to Montanari and train the other paediatric surgeons. But how on earth could she ask him without giving the game away? Would she sound like some desperate stalker?
Oh, Olly, by the way...can I just phone your friend the Prince, please? Can you give me his number?
She sighed and rested her head backwards on the sofa watching the yellow ticker tape of the news channel stream past.
Her eyes glazed over. Last time she’d seen Seb she’d screamed at him. Hardly the most ladylike response.
It didn’t matter that his lie had been by omission. That might even seem a tiny bit excusable now. But then, six weeks ago, rationality had left the luxurious chalet she’d found herself in.
It had been a simple mistake. The car driver—or, let’s face it, he was probably a lot more than that—had given a nod and