A Royal Baby For Christmas

Dear Reader (#u96988f89-97f6-591a-98a3-97ed3c9ef541)

Title Page (#u08f1a703-de72-5664-8d63-38870052fe3e)

About the Author (#u75261e19-2f9e-5477-831b-65a9aeba34af)

Booklist (#u19f42ed8-9bfa-5b8d-bf05-3dd83141c9f8)

Dedication (#u6f471f9a-c424-53b9-abd4-05c8636a215e)

Praise (#ue9576cd6-18c3-53a9-bbd6-a420da4aa8ed)

PROLOGUE (#u51fc4bca-94e9-5c9a-89d8-30cfde46c845)

CHAPTER ONE (#uf88dfad0-c3b3-517b-8a4d-89d32203008e)

CHAPTER TWO (#ud1df2e1b-c4d9-5f27-83d1-886afadffccc)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#u84aa2dbd-9372-58e6-840c-3f9e9e7685f5)

May

HIS EYES SCANNED the bar as he ran his fingers through his hair. Six weeks, three countries, ten flights and thousands of miles. He’d been wined and dined by heads of state and consulate staff, negotiated trade agreements, arranged to be part of a water aid initiative, held babies, shaken hands for hours and had a number of tense diplomatic conversations.

All of this while avoiding dozens of calls from his mother about the upcoming royal announcement. His apparent betrothal to his lifelong friend.

All he wanted to do was find a seat, have a drink and clear a little head space. Il Palazzo di Cristallo was one of the few places he could do that. Set in the stunning mountains of Montanari, the exclusive boutique hotel only ever had a select few guests—most of whom were seeking sanctuary from the outside world. The press were banned. The staff were screened and well looked after to ensure all guests’ privacy was well respected—including the Crown Prince of Montanari. For the first time in six weeks Sebastian might actually be able to relax.

Except someone was sitting in his favourite seat at the bar.

There. A figure with shoulders slumped and her head leaning on her hand. Her ash-blonde hair was escaping from its clasp and her blue dress was creased. Two empty glasses of wine sat on the bar in front of her.

The bartender sat down a third and gave Sebastian an almost indiscernible nod. The staff here knew he liked to keep his identity quiet.

Odd. He didn’t recognise the figure. Sebastian knew all the movie stars and celebrities who usually stayed here. She wasn’t a fellow royal or a visiting dignitary. His curiosity was piqued.

He strode across the room and slid onto the stool next to hers at the bar. She didn’t even look up in acknowledgement.

Her fingers were running up and down the stem of the glass and her light brown eyes were unfocused. But it wasn’t the drink. It was deep contemplation.

Sebastian sucked in a breath. Whoever she was, she was beautiful. Her skin was flawless. Her features finer than those of some of the movie starlets he’d been exposed to. Being Prince of Montanari meant that a whole host of women had managed to cross his path over the last few years. Not that he’d taken any of them seriously. He had a duty to his future kingdom. A duty to marry an acceptable neighbouring princess. There was no question about it—it had been instilled in him from a young age it was part of his preparations for finally becoming King. Marriage was a business transaction. It wasn’t the huge love and undying happiness portrayed in fairy tales. There were no rainbows and flying unicorns. It came down to the most advantageous match for the country and his parents had found her. Theresa Mon Carte, his childhood friend and a princess from the neighbouring principality. They were to be married within the year.

Part of the reason he was here was to get some time to resign himself to his fate. Because that was what it felt like.

But right now, he couldn’t think about that at all.

He was entirely distracted by the woman sitting next to him. She looked as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. There was no Botox here. Her brow was definitely furrowed and somehow he knew this woman would never be interested in cosmetic procedures.

‘Want to tell me about them?’

‘What?’ She looked up, startled at the sound of his voice.

Light brown eyes that looked as if they’d once had a little dark eyeliner around them. It was smudged now. But that didn’t stop the effect.

It was like being speared straight through the heart.

For a second neither of them spoke. It was the weirdest sensation—as if the air around them had just stilled.

He was drinking in everything about her. Her forgotten-about hair. Her crumpled clothes. Her dejected appearance.

But there was something else. Something that wouldn’t let him break their gaze. A buzz. An air. He’d never felt something like this before. And she felt it too.

He could tell. Her pupils dilated just a little before his eyes. He didn’t have any doubt that his were so big right now the Grand Canyon could fit in them.

There was something about her demeanour. This woman was a professional. She was educated. And she was, oh, so sexy.

He found his tongue. ‘Your worries.’ He couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn upwards.

She gave the briefest rise of her eyebrows and turned back towards the waiting wine glass. Her shoulders straightened a little. He’d definitely caught her attention.

Just as she’d caught his.

He leaned a little closer and nudged her shoulder. ‘You’re sitting on my favourite bar stool.’

‘Didn’t have your name on it,’ she quipped back.

Her accent. It was unmistakeable. The Scottish twang made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He could listen to that all day. Or all night.

She swung her legs around towards him and leaned one arm on the bar. ‘Come to think of it, you must be kind of brave.’ She took a sip of her wine. Her eyebrows lifted again. ‘Or kind of stupid.’

He liked it. She was flirting back. He leaned his arm on the bar too, so they were closer than ever. ‘What makes you think that?’

She licked her lips. ‘Because you’re trying to get between a Scots girl and the bar.’ She smiled as she ran her eyes up and down the length of his body. It was almost as if she’d reached her fingers out and touched him. ‘Haven’t you heard about Scots girls?’