Billionaire Prince, Pregnant Mistress

“Hello?” She listened, then cleared her throat. “Yes, sí, I know. Yes, I know that, too. I’m sorry you had to wait for my call.” Her eyes swept to Alex; she turned her back as if that would give her the privacy she needed. “Could we discuss this another time?” she said in a low voice.

Alex had moved with her; his eyes, fixed on her, still held that dangerous glitter. Didn’t he understand she needed privacy? Who did he think she was talking to? Joaquin, probably. That almost made her laugh. The voice whining in her ear was her mother’s.

And hearing from Luz was the last thing she needed right now.

She turned again, desperately wishing this were a cordless phone so she could walk further away. Her mother was telling her about her cousin Angela—snide, holier-than-thou Angela—and her latest promotion at the insurance company. Maria had only to ask, Luz was saying, as she did every few weeks, and Angela would get her a job interview.

“Let me tell you my wonderful news,” she said quickly, breaking into her mother’s endless praise for Angela. “That commission? The one to design the birthday jewels for Queen Tia of Aristo? Well, I’ve landed it.”

She waited, although she really didn’t know what she was waiting for. She knew better than to think her mother would shriek with joy and say, I’m soproud of you, mia bella, or even, That’s wonderfulnews. But she didn’t really expect Luz to say, “You?” as if such a thing were impossible.

“You lost the competition. You were not good enough to win it.”

Maria winced. “Yes. Well—well, things changed. There was a problem with the winner and so—”

“Ah.” Her mother’s sigh spoke volumes. “Well, no matter how you came by it, it is an opportunity. Be sure you do nothing to ruin it.”

Maria felt like weeping, which was ridiculous. Why should tonight be different than the past twenty-eight years?

What made it even worse was that Alex had not taken his eyes from her. It was infuriating. His Royal Highness was a Royal Boor when it came to manners. Didn’t he know enough to walk away when someone was having a private conversation?

“One of the things your cousin Angela has always done is to make the most of her chances.”

“Yes. I know.” Maria cleared her throat. “It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Another deep sigh came over the phone. “God willing I will be here tomorrow. And please, Maria, do not waste time telling me the doctors say my health is excellent. What do doctors know?”

There was no point in answering. That road, well-traveled over the decades, led nowhere.

“Good night,” Maria said, “I love—”

Too late. Luz had already disconnected. Maria put down the phone and swallowed hard. The Prince of Arrogance hadn’t moved; he was still standing right next to her. She drew a long breath, let it out as slowly as she could, then turned to face him.

“Wasn’t he interested in your charming declaration of affection?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your lover. Joaquin. I had the impression he ended the call rather abruptly. Didn’t your news please him?”

“That wasn’t—” She bit her lip. Would having a lover, however imaginary, offer her some protection? She needed protection; every instinct told her that. “That wasn’t polite,” she said. “Listening to my conversation.”

He smiled thinly. “And you, Ms. Santos, are the expert on etiquette, are you not?” The smile vanished; he shoved a gold pen at her. “Sign the contract.”

Why did that sound so ominous? “I insist you meet my conditions before I—”

Suddenly, his hands were on her, cupping her shoulders, lifting her to her toes.

“You’re lucky to be getting this commission,” he said coldly. “We both know that. You’re desperate for money—please, don’t waste my time denying it. And you need the prestige that comes with creating a necklace for a queen.” His tone hardened. “Sign the contract, Maria.”

Her lip trembled. She looked away from him and, for a heartbeat, he hated himself.

Was he really reduced to this? Bullying a woman on the skids? A woman whose lover had obviously not said a word to congratulate her on winning this commission?

And why should he give a damn? Maria Santos was nothing to him.

“Sign the papers,” he growled.

She picked up the pen, smoothed out the documents, laid them on the table and scribbled her name where he indicated. He felt a surge of heat sweep through him. But he said nothing, simply took the papers, folded them and tucked them back in his pocket.

“As for conditions…there are others besides the ones I mentioned. There are my conditions,” he said in a softly ominous tone. “And you will meet them.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. She felt her pulse begin to race. Whatever he was about to say was going to turn her world upside down; she could sense it.

“One,” he said, still in that soft voice, “you shall have the studio of your dreams—but on Aristo, not here.”

“Are you insane? I have no intention of—”

“I assume your passport is in order.”

“Of course, but—”

“You will leave with me, tonight.”

“You cannot do this to—”

He bent to her and kissed her. Kissed her as if she belonged to him, his tongue in her mouth, his hands cupping her bottom, lifting her to him, into him, into the heavy thrust of his erection.

“And,” he said thickly, when he finally raised his head, “you will warm my bed until you finish the job.”

“No!” She shook her head as if to emphasize her refusal. “No,” she said again, her voice high and wild, “I’ll never—”

“You will, or I’ll do what I should have done when you left my bed the first time. I’ll tell the queen about our little adventure. I’ll tell her you’re not worthy of designing her gift or of working in proximity to her. And then you can stay in this loft and forever live with the knowledge that you failed at the one thing that could have changed your life.”