lifted himself away from the door and walked towards her with long, easy strides that belied the speed and strength she knew he had. And his expression was too leashed to be anything like reassuring.
This wasn’t the suave, gleaming-eyed Prince Charming whom the public adored. This was a coldly angry stranger, carved from granite. This was a side of him she’d never seen.
Because when she’d left him that afternoon she’d not looked back.
Yet now, despite his iciness, that sensual intensity still emanated from every inch of him. And in seconds she was close to succumbing to it again.
That scared her too.
But she couldn’t peel her gaze off him. Never had she met such a wildly attractive man. Never had she wanted a man in the way she’d wanted him. The memories she’d tried to bury for so long now burst into her shock-weakened mind. For a split-second she saw him as he’d been that afternoon, naked and slick and braced above her, his gaze brilliant and fierce, his body both punishing and protective, while she—
‘Stella.’
Heat surged into her cheeks and she banished the scorching image—mortified that she could lose control so quickly. She lifted her chin, bracing herself—because that was a warning tone if ever she’d heard one.
He walked closer, his gaze never leaving her face, restraint evident in his too-measured movements and the compression of his mouth. But for a second he’d looked furious.
It was only with supreme self-discipline that she suppressed the instinct to step back. Her stupid body turned schizophrenic. Instead of freezing, she was burning. Just beneath her skin her blood simmered, almost humming in delight from his nearness. It was insane, and she hated her foolishness. How could she be so weak when the result of this want had just ruined her world? Yet that wilful, wicked, reckless part of her only wanted him to touch her again. Touch her and make her forget the world, as he’d done so easily once before.
Mercifully, he didn’t. He stopped a single pace away, his muscles taut, his stance wide and predatory—as if he suspected she might try to escape any second.
‘Stella Zambrano,’ he said softly, but through gritted teeth. His intense lapis lazuli eyes sharpened, hardened, chilled. And his words stabbed. ‘Welcome to Secreto Real. We will be married here tomorrow.’
MARRIED? STELLA LAUGHED. As if.
She was a disgraced soldier. He was a partying pirate prince. The idea of him marrying her was preposterous.
‘Did you hear what I said, Stella?’ Shadows darkened his blue eyes. ‘Do you understand?’
Why was he talking to her as if she was a two-year-old?
‘You’re not getting married,’ she said. He was a playboy. And when he finally settled down—at least five years from now—it would be with one of the stunning minor European royals with an aristocratic seal of approval.
‘I am. To you. Tomorrow.’
She shook her head. ‘There’s no need. I’m not pregnant.’
He caught her wrist. ‘Do not lie to me. Ever.’
She flinched, squeezing to stop her cells sizzling at his touch. ‘I’m not.’
She couldn’t be pregnant—surely she’d know if she was? Wouldn’t she have symptoms? She struggled to remember her last cycle, but other memories—whispered mentions of her mother—crowded her mind. Confused her. Scared the hell out of her.
Her skin burned. The edge of her vision wobbled and blurred.
‘You’re saying the report is wrong?’ he prompted.
‘I’m saying I don’t know.’ She frowned, trying to focus.
‘Well, I am saying that if you are pregnant we marry immediately. I am not having my child born illegitimately and left to live on the fringes of society, with none of the benefits he or she should rightly have.’
Royal benefits.
Stella refused to believe this was happening. She refused to allow control to be taken over every aspect of her life. She’d find an escape. Immediately.
‘Even if I am pregnant...who’s to say it’s yours?’ she challenged, breathing hard to fill her constricted lungs.
Deadly silence followed.
His grip on her wrist tightened painfully, then he grasped her chin with hard fingers and tilted it. Defiantly she held his gaze.
‘Try saying that again,’ he muttered, through lips that barely moved.
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart hammered loud and hard, as if trying to smash free from its cage.
‘I remember,’ he said, low and harsh and so very angry. ‘I remember everything.’
They both knew the truth.
They’d both been aware of her feverish fumbling. Of her physical reaction—the resulting stain of surrendered innocence that couldn’t be feigned. She’d been with no other man before and no man since.
If she was pregnant, Prince Eduardo De Santis was the only possible father.
‘We used protection...’ she whispered unhappily.
‘It was your condom.’ He suddenly released her.
His cool attack sent a sharp edge of alarm scurrying down her spine. ‘Army issue,’ she snapped back.
Issued years and years ago. And it had been in her wallet ever since—surviving heat, travel, cold, time. At least she’d thought it had survived those things. Did condoms have ‘best before’ dates? Dread washed over her—surely she couldn’t have been so stupid?
‘I didn’t...’ She breathed hard but her words remained a mere whisper. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘You didn’t know I was going to be there because I didn’t know. Taking a walk on the beach that day was a spontaneous decision. An unfortunate one, as it turns out.’
Had he wanted to think she’d somehow schemed her way into this situation? But he couldn’t. Because it was a spur-of-the-moment decision of his that had caused this. As if she would ever want to become pregnant!
He watched her relentlessly as reality began to sink in.
She turned, breaking free of his intense gaze to stare sightlessly at the floor. She’d just lost her job. The one man she’d never ever wanted to see again was insisting she marry him tomorrow. And if she was having a child it would need shelter and food and warmth. If she was pregnant she’d have to do what her mother hadn’t. She’d have to survive childbirth.
Her whole world darkened and spun.
With a muttered oath he grabbed her hand again and guided her a couple of paces across the room. She hated herself but her skin burned—her cells aching for his closer touch, for him to pull her all the way towards him, to tuck her against his body and press her close.
As if she hadn’t got into enough trouble.
‘Take off your sweatshirt,’ he ordered as he pushed her into a large plush armchair.
‘What?’
‘You’re flushed,’ he explained dismissively. ‘You need to cool down.’
He tugged at her sleeves. Stella quickly pulled away, slipping her sweatshirt over her head to stop him from doing it and humiliating her completely. Because the look in his eyes was controlled and blank. Unaroused. He didn’t want her that way any more. He was livid and she didn’t blame him.
She scrunched her sweatshirt into a ball in