His Pregnant Christmas Princess. Leah Ashton
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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?’
PRINCESS ANA WAS glaring at him. Her hands were on her hips, her eyes were narrowed and her full lips were in a perfectly straight impatient line.
It was quite late, but Rhys could see well enough in the muted light to acknowledge that Princess Ana was rather more attractive than he’d expected. Oh, he’d known she was pretty—but in person she was just…more. More vivid, somehow. More striking. Striking enough that he’d grinned at her like a moron for who knew how long—until he’d remembered he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a princess about to move in with him.
If anyone but Prince Marko had asked, he would never have agreed to it. He liked his privacy—he needed it, in fact. And he quite literally guaranteed it, with the most cutting-edge security system he’d designed protecting the perimeter of his property.
He never had guests.
He also didn’t need the money the palace had offered. North Security was doing well. Extremely well, actually. This wasn’t a financial decision.
But he had agreed. Because Marko wasn’t one for asking favours. For Marko to call him so unexpectedly, Rhys knew this must be important to his friend. And when Marko had said it was Ana he was trying to help, Rhys hadn’t been surprised.
Rhys remembered the scandal when Prince Goran had died last year, and Marko’s subsequent guilt. His friend had been convinced he should have known he had a long-lost cousin, despite Rhys pointing out that the original saga—and Goran’s denial of paternity—had all taken place well before Marko had turned ten.
But, regardless, Marko had a soft spot for Ana, and so when his new cousin had needed a place to escape to he had called the person best equipped to provide an absolutely secure, absolutely private location far from Vela Ada.
And because it was Marko who’d asked him—and because of that terrible night in the middle of the desert five years earlier—Rhys figured that a favour was the least he could do for the man who’d been there for him at his absolute worst.
Princess Ana gave a little huff of frustration. It was cold enough that it was accompanied by a tiny cloud of condensation.
‘We should go inside,’ he said, suddenly realising how cold he was. How cold they all must be.
The Princess’s two guards were rugged up in black coats and beanies, but rather than encouraging their charge into the warm home they were clearly waiting for direction from Rhys. He had specified to Marko that he must be in charge of all security on the property should Ana come and stay with him, but this was ridiculous. No level of security was much use should they all freeze to death.
He