The Duchess Diaries: The Diplomat's Pregnant Bride / Her Unforgettable Royal Lover / The Texan's Royal M.D.

“Gina?”

She almost choked on a lump of crab. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you’d consider coming down to D.C. for a short visit. I’d like to show you my home and introduce you to my parents.”

The request was reasonable. Naturally Jack’s parents would want to meet the mother of their grandchild. From the little he’d let drop about his staunchly conservative father, though, Gina suspected John Harris Mason II probably wouldn’t greet her with open arms.

“Let’s talk about that later,” she hedged. “After I get settled and find a job.”

They finished lunch and lingered a few minutes over tea and coffee refills. Gina’s nerves had started to get jittery by the time they exited the Boathouse. Jack walked with her through the park now filled with bicyclers and in-line skaters and sun worshippers sprawled on benches with eyes closed and faces tilted to the sky.

A group of Japanese tourists had congregated at Bethesda Fountain and were busy snapping photos of each other with the bronze statue of the Angel of the Waters towering over them. At the shy request of one of the younger members of the group, Jack obligingly stopped to take a picture of the whole party. Everyone wanted a copy on their own camera so Gina ended up acting as a runner, passing him ten or twelve cameras before they were done. By the time they reached Fifth Avenue and Jack hailed a cab to take her to her interview, she was feeling the pressure of time.

“Keep your fingers crossed,” she said without thinking as the cab pulled over to the curb.

Only as he reached to open the door for her did she remember that he would prefer she didn’t land this—or any job—in New York. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted to put a ring on her finger and take care of her and their child. To his credit, he buried those feelings behind an easy smile.

“I’ll do better than that. Here’s a kiss for luck.”

He kept it light. Just a brush of his lips over hers. On the first pass, at least.

Afterward Gina could never say for sure who initiated the second pass. All she knew was that Jack hooked a hand behind her nape, she went up on tiptoe and what had started as a friendly good-luck token got real deep and real hungry.

When he finally raised his head, she saw herself reflected in his eyes. “I...I have to go!”

He stepped back and gave her room to make an escape. She slid into the cab and spent the short drive to the Tremayne Group’s headquarters trying desperately to remember all the reasons why she wanted—no, needed!—this job.

* * *

At three-ten, she was reiterating that same grim list. She’d been sitting in Nicole Tremayne’s ultramodern outer office for more than half an hour while a harried receptionist fielded phone calls and a succession of subordinates rushed in and out of the boss’s office. Any other time Gina would have walked out after the first fifteen or twenty minutes. She didn’t have that luxury now.

Instead, she’d used the time to reread the information she’d found on Google about the Tremayne Group. She also studied every page in the slick, glossy brochure given out to prospective clients. Even then she had to unlock her jaw and force a smile when the receptionist finally ushered her into the inner sanctum.

Stunned, Gina stopped dead. This dark cavern was the command center of a company that hosted more than two thousand events a year at a dozen different venues? And this tiny whirlwind erupting from behind her marble slab of a desk was the famed Nicole Tremayne?

She couldn’t have been more than five-one, and she owed at least four of those inches to her needle-heeled ankle boots. Gina was still trying to marry the bloodred ankle boots to her salt-and-pepper corkscrew curls when Nicole thrust out a hand.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. You’re Eugenia, right? Eugenia St. Sebastian?”

“Yes, I...”

“My father had a thing for your grandmother. I was just a kid at the time, but I remember he talked about leaving my mother for her.”

“Oh. Well, uh...”

“He should have. My mother was a world-class ball-breaker.” Swooping a thick book of fabric swatches off one of the chairs in front of her desk, Tremayne dumped it on the floor. “Sit, sit.”

Still slightly stunned, Gina sat. Nicole cleared the chair next to hers and perched on its edge with the nervous energy of a hummingbird.

“I looked at the digital portfolio of your sister’s wedding. Classy job. You did all the arrangements?”

“With some help.”

“Who from?”

“Andrew, at the Plaza. And Patrick Donovan. He’s...”

“Dev Hunter’s right-hand man. I know. We coordinated a major charity event for Hunter’s corporation last year. Three thousand attendees at two thousand a pop. So when can you start?”

“Excuse me?”

“One of the assistant event planners at our midtown venue just got busted for possession. She’s out on bail, but I can’t have a user working for TTG.” Her bird-bright eyes narrowed on Gina. “You don’t do dope, do you?”

“No.”

“I’d better not find out otherwise.”

“You won’t.”

Tremayne nodded. “Here’s the thing. You have a lousy work record but a terrific pedigree. If you inherited half your grandmother’s class and a quarter of her smarts, you should be able to handle this job.”

Gina wasn’t sure whether she’d just been complimented or insulted. She was still trying to decide when her prospective boss continued briskly.

“You also grew up here in the city. You know your way around and you know how to interact with the kind of customers we attract. Plus, the classy digital portfolio you sent me shows you’ve got a flair for design and know computers. Whether you can handle vendors and show yourself as a team player remains to be seen, but I’m willing to give you a shot. When can you start?”

Tomorrow!

The joyous reply was almost out before Gina caught it. Gulping, she throttled back her exhilaration.

“I can start anytime but there’s something I need to tell you before we go any further.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“And I’m Episcopalian. So?”

Could it really be this easy? Gina didn’t think so. Suspicion wormed through her elation.

“Did my grandmother call you?” she asked. “Or Pat Donovan?”

“No.”

Her jaw locked. Dammit! It had to have been Jack.

“Then I assume you talked to the ambassador,” she said stiffly.

“What ambassador?”