Billionaire Prince, Pregnant Mistress. Sandra Marton
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him was as much a tourist attraction as the beaches, the yachts and the casino.
The hell she hadn’t recognized him.
She’d known who he was. She’d set the entire thing up.
But he had not known it, then.
She’d protested prettily that she couldn’t possibly let him pay for her meal but she’d let him think he’d overcome her protests. And, after dinner, when they’d walked along the sea wall, when he’d kissed her while they stood surrounded by the tall pines that grew on a little promontory and their kisses had gone from soft and exploratory to hot and deep, when his hands had gone under her silk skirt and she’d moaned into his mouth, when he’d put his arm tightly around her waist, still kissing her, and led her through the now-quiet streets to his flat, to his bed, when she’d clung to him and whispered she’d never done anything like this before…
When she’d come apart in his arms, her cries so sweet, so wild, so real…
Alex cursed.
“Sir?” his driver said, but Alex ignored him, swung open the door of the Bentley himself and stepped into the night.
Lies, all of it, lies that had come undone in the early morning when he’d reached for her again and found her side of the bed empty. He’d assumed she was in the bathroom.
She wasn’t.
He’d heard her voice, soft as the breeze from the sea. Was she on the phone? Without knowing why he did it, he’d carefully lifted the one on his night table and brought it to his ear.
Yes, he’d heard her say with a breathy little laugh, yes, Joaquin, I think I really do have a good chance of being named the winner. I know the competition is tough but I have every reason to believe my chances are really excellent.
She’d looked up from the telephone when he walked into the kitchen. Her face had gone crimson.
“You’re awake,” she’d begun to say, with an awkward smile.
He’d taken the phone from her hand. Pressed the ‘end’ button. Carried her back to bed without saying a word, taken her in passion born of anger.
Then he’d told her to get her clothes on. To get the hell out. And not to bother showing up at the palace, later.
“Your chances of being named to design my mother’s birthday gift,” he’d said in clipped tones, “are less than those of a snowball in hell.”
Alex strode across the street.
It had taken two months but that prediction was no longer just a metaphor. Here was the snow. And, in just a couple of minutes, Maria Santos would get a first-hand introduction to hell.
And he would get the satisfaction of putting her, and that night, out of his head.
Forever.
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