Carrying The Spaniard's Child. Jennie Lucas
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yearned to sleep, as well. His body wanted to stay like this, with her, cuddled in this warm bed, taking solace in each other against the cold January night and all the other cold nights to come.
Warning lights were flashing everywhere.
He looked down at her, sweetly sleeping in his arms, so soft and beautiful, so opinionated and dreamy and kind. So optimistic.
You saved me.
Santiago felt bone-weary. Carefully, he disentangled himself from her. Rising from the bed, he walked naked to his coat crumpled on the floor. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed the number of his pilot.
The man struggled not to sound groggy. It was eleven o’clock on a cold winter’s night. “Sir?”
“Come get me,” he replied. “I’m at Fairholme.”
Without waiting for a reply, Santiago hung up. He looked back at Belle one last time, sleeping in his bed, so beautiful in the moonlight. Like an innocent young woman from another time. He couldn’t remember ever being that innocent, not with the upbringing he’d had.
Whatever Belle might say, she would want to love him. She would try, like a moth immolating herself against an unfeeling flame.
Of course she would. He was her first.
His jaw tightened. He never would have seduced her if he’d known. He had a rule. No virgins. No innocent hearts. He never brought anyone to his bed who might actually care.
And he’d just seduced an innocent virgin. The friend of Darius’s wife.
He felt a low self-hatred. After Nadia, he’d vowed never to get involved with anyone again. Why risk your capital on an investment that was a guaranteed loss? Might as well flush your money—or your soul—straight down the drain.
He thought again of Wuthering Heights. He’d never read the book, but he knew it ended badly. It was romance, wasn’t it? That always ended badly. Especially in real life.
Santiago silently dressed, then picked up his overnight bag. But he hesitated at the door, still hearing the wistful echo of her voice.
Don’t you believe in anyone? Anything?
He’d lied to her. He’d told her he believed in himself. But the real answer was no.
Belle would wake up alone in bed and find him gone. No note would be needed. She’d get the message. He really was the heartless bastard he claimed to be.
As if there was ever any doubt, he jeered at himself. Regret and self-loathing filled him as he turned down the hall.
He wished he’d never touched her.
SHIVERING IN THE warm July twilight, Belle stood on the sidewalk of Santiago’s elegant residential street on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She watched well-dressed guests step out of glossy chauffeured cars, climbing up the steps and ringing at his door, to be greeted by his butler.
A butler, she thought bitterly. Who had a butler in this day and age?
Santiago Velazquez—that was who.
But the butler wasn’t the problem. Belle watched a crowd of beautiful young socialites, giggling and preening, hurry up the steps of his brownstone in six-inch heels and designer cocktail dresses.
She looked down at her own loose, oversized T-shirt, stretchy knit shorts and flip-flops. She wasn’t wearing makeup. Her brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She’d fit in at his fancy party like a dog driving a car.
She didn’t belong here. And she didn’t want to see Santiago again—ever—after the cold way he’d treated her after they’d slept together in January. Losing her virginity in a one-night stand with the heartless, cynical playboy was a mistake she would regret the rest of her life.
But she couldn’t leave New York. Not without telling him she was pregnant.
Pregnant. Every time she thought of it, she caught her breath. It was a miracle. She didn’t have any other word to describe it, when seven years ago she’d been told very firmly by a doctor that it could never happen. Pregnant.
A dazed smile traced Belle’s lips as she rested her hands gently over the wide curve of her belly now. Somehow, in that disastrous night when Santiago had seduced her, this one amazing, impossible thing had happened. She’d gotten her heart’s deepest desire: a baby of her own.
There was just one bad thing about it.
Her smile faded. Of all the men on earth to be her unborn baby’s father...
She’d tried to tell him; she’d left multiple messages asking him to call her back. He hadn’t. She’d been almost glad. It gave her a good excuse to do what she wanted to do—leave New York without telling him he was going to be a father.
But her friend Letty had convinced her to make one last try. “Secrets always come out,” she’d pleaded. “Don’t make my mistake.”
So, against her better judgment, here Belle was, stopping at his luxury brownstone on her way out of town. The last place she wanted to be.
Just thinking of facing Santiago for the first time since he’d snuck out of her bed in the middle of the night, she wanted to turn and run for her pickup truck parked two blocks away, then head south on the turnpike, stomp on the gas and not look back until she reached Texas.
But she’d already made the decision to try one last time to give him the life-changing news that he was going to be a father. Belle always tried to do the right thing, even if it hurt. She wasn’t going to turn coward now. Not over him.
Tightening her hands into fists, Belle waited until the last limousine departed, then crossed the street in the fading twilight. Her body shook as she walked up the stone steps and knocked on the big oak door.
The butler took one look at her, then started to close the door as he said scornfully, “Staff and delivery entrance at the back.”
Belle blocked the door with her foot. “Excuse me. I need to see Santiago. Please.”
The butler looked astonished at her familiar use of his employer’s first name, as if a talking rat had just squeaked a request to see the mayor of New York. “Who are you?”
“Tell him Belle Langtry urgently needs to see him.” She raised her chin, struggling to hide her pounding heart. “It’s an emergency.”
With a scowl, the butler opened the door just enough for her to get through. The soles of Belle’s flip-flops slapped against the marble floor of the mansion’s elegant foyer. She had one brief glimpse of the beautiful, wealthy society crowd in the ballroom, sipping champagne as waiters passed through with silver trays. Then she sucked in her breath as she saw the party’s host, head and shoulders above the crowd. With his height and dark good looks, Santiago Velazquez towered over his guests in every way.
The butler pointed down an opposite hallway haughtily. “Wait in there.”
Through the door, Belle found a home office with leather-bound books and a big dark wood desk. Knees weak, she sank into the expensive swivel chair. Her cheeks still burned from seeing Santiago from a distance. Thinking of seeing him face to face, she was terrified.
The night he’d taken her virginity, passion and emotion had been like a whirlwind, flinging her up into the sky, to the stars, scattering pieces of her soul like diamonds across the night. It had been so sensual, so spectacular. More than she’d even dreamed it could be.
Right until the moment he’d abandoned her, and she’d had to go down to breakfast alone. She’d had to hide her hurt and bewilderment, and smile at Letty and Darius and their baby, pretending nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. That was how cold-hearted Santiago was. He’d only promised one night, true. But