Chapter Eight

      Molly wanted to laugh.

      Her sister was always complaining about the cluelessness of men in general and of her husband in particular. No one could accuse Eric Santiago of being clueless—she’d gotten sick once, and he assumed he had all the answers.

      Unfortunately for Molly, they were the right answers.

      “You’re not denying it,” he said.

      She’d considered doing just that, if only to erase the smug certainty from his tone. But the truth would be only too obvious in a few more months and, ultimately, he had a right to know. She might be annoyed that the decision of when and where to tell him had been taken out of her hands, but she was also relieved that he finally knew.

      “No,” she finally said. “But it’s way too early to be making any big announcement about it, so I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between us.”

      “It’s not that early,” he said, obviously having already done some quick mental calculations.

      She shook her head. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

      “You expect me to believe that the baby’s not mine?”

      No, but she hadn’t expected him to assume that it was. She’d still been trying to figure out the best way to tell him about the baby, and to prepare herself for the likelihood that he might deny paternity in the absence of proof. It was what almost any man would do when confronted with the news of an unplanned pregnancy, especially by a woman with whom he’d spent only one night. But she was starting to realize that Eric Santiago rarely did what she expected him to do.

      “I’m not ready to have this conversation right now,” she said.

      “Then when?” he demanded.

      “Look, Eric, I know this has caught you off guard, but I want to assure you that I made the decision to have this baby and I will assume full responsibility for him or her.”

      “¡Cómo infierno!”

      She blinked, startled by his vehement outburst—and the fleeting hurt in his eyes.

      “We made that baby together, we will be responsible for that baby together.”

      “You’ve got to be joking.”

      “I assure you that I am not.”

      The calm, unyielding tone worried her. Whatever she’d anticipated when she finally got around to telling him about their baby, it wasn’t this.

      “Did you really think I was the type of man who would abandon my responsibilities?” he challenged her.

      “I didn’t think anything,” she denied. “But we spent one night together, and at the time, I didn’t know what type of man you were at all.”

      “You should know me a lot better now.”

      “Not well enough to anticipate how you might respond to the news of an unexpected pregnancy.”

      “Then I’ll tell you—I have no intention of denying paternity. My child will be acknowledged and accepted as mine and he will take his rightful place in line to the throne.”

      She’d been stunned to learn that the father of her child was a prince, apparently so stunned that she’d somehow failed to reach the logical conclusion that his status meant that his child would be royalty, as well.

      But she wasn’t so stunned now that she failed to notice that he’d used both the terms “he” and “his.” She’d found herself thinking of the baby in male gender terms, too, but only because she couldn’t think of her child as “it.” She wondered if it was the same for Eric or if he was hoping the baby was a boy because a male child was more important in the royal family hierarchy.

      “And what if it’s a girl?” she asked.

      He frowned. “It makes no difference to me whether the child is a boy or a girl.”

      “Would it make any difference with respect to succession?”

      “No. When Alexandria was born, Julian persuaded parliament to change the law to allow for equal primogeniture so that she wouldn’t lose her place in line to the throne, which she would have done when Damon was born.

      “Which means,” he continued, “regardless of the child’s gender, he or she will come directly after me in the line of succession.”

      “And where are you in the line?” she asked, starting to feel a little weak in the knees at the thought that her unborn child could someday rule a Mediterranean country.

      “Seventh,” he answered her question.

      The response helped her to breathe again because she knew, realistically, that while her child’s place in line to the throne meant he could someday rule the country, it was unlikely he would ever be called upon do so.

      Still—a mother who was a bartender and a father who was a prince? If that wasn’t a recipe for disaster for the poor kid, she didn’t know what was.