Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella Read online

  Her shocking announcement will alter his life—forever!

  Compassionate waitress Skye O’Hara has imagined this moment. It’s her chance to finally tell imposing Lazaro Sanchez that their unexpected and intense passion had consequences. Skye is determined to prevent her son from experiencing the chaos of her own childhood. But what can she expect from a playboy billionaire?

  When she confronts him with the truth at an exclusive gala, their still-sizzling connection hits her like a thunderbolt. And what Lazaro says to her next is even more outrageous than her own confession...

  “Wait! Stop!”

  It took Lazaro a second to realize that people weren’t looking at them anymore. They were all looking to his left-hand side. At something. Or someone. He glanced around to see two of his security team were holding back a woman.

  A petite red-haired woman. Who looked familiar. Too familiar. He noticed details dispassionately as shock flooded his system to see Skye here, not just in his memory.

  Her blue eyes were huge and slightly wild-looking. Her hair was up in a bun, tendrils of red and gold falling down around her heart-shaped face. Determined chin. Small straight nose. Full mouth, currently in a thin line.

  Suddenly the shock galvanized him into action. He let go of Leonora and made a move toward the woman, as if he knew what was about to happen and thought he could stop it. But no. Before he could reach her, her voice rang out again, loud and clear. The fact that she spoke in Spanish was a detail he didn’t even absorb fully.

  “You need to know something. I’m pregnant. With your child.”

  Rival Spanish Brothers

  Billionaire brothers at odds...have picked their Cinderella brides!

  When your sibling is also your greatest rival, nothing is easy. Blood may bind Lazaro and Gabriel together, but a lifelong feud continues to tear them apart. As they battle to find a bride, the Spaniards begin to realize that maybe family—and not their fortune—is everything. But it will take their convenient wives to show them!

  It’s a race down the aisle for...

  Lazaro and Skye

  Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

  Available now!

  Gabriel and Leonora

  Redeemed by His Stolen Bride

  Coming soon!

  Abby Green

  Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella

  Irish author Abby Green ended a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Harlequin with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or email [email protected].

  Books by Abby Green

  Harlequin Presents

  The Virgin’s Debt to Pay

  Awakened by the Scarred Italian

  Conveniently Wed!

  Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

  One Night With Consequences

  An Innocent, A Seduction, A Secret

  Wedlocked!

  Claimed for the De Carillo Twins

  Brides for Billionaires

  Married for the Tycoon’s Empire

  Rulers of the Desert

  A Diamond for the Sheikh’s Mistress

  A Christmas Bride for the King

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  This is for Austin, Gary and Billy. You guys are my heart.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM UNWRAPPING THE INNOCENT'S SECRET BY CAITLIN CREWS

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAZARO SANCHEZ SURVEYED the glittering ballroom of one of Madrid’s most exclusive hotels. A hotel that he owned. Satisfaction and anticipation coursed through his veins. This moment...was huge. His whole life had been building to this, to standing here in front of his peers.

  But they hadn’t always been his peers. These people wouldn’t have recognised him as the semi-feral teenager who’d roamed and lived on the streets. Hustling to make a few euros by washing car windows at traffic lights; showing tourists how to beat the queues into museums and galleries; eating out of bins when he couldn’t afford to buy food.

  The familiar burn of injustice and rage burned low in his gut when he recalled those desperate days. He’d run away from his last foster home when the father had cornered Lazaro in the bedroom and started taking his trousers down.

  Lazaro had jumped out of the first-floor window.

  From the age of thirteen he’d fended for himself.

  The cruel irony of it all was that Lazaro hadn’t been orphaned, or abused by his parents so badly that he’d been removed from their care, like other kids who’d ended up in the foster homes. He’d been abandoned into the system by his parents. And, actually, his father was in this very room right now. Not that he would ever look him in the eye. Or admit he was his father—even under duress.

  As for his mother, he’d only ever seen her a handful of times in his life, from a distance.

  The reason for that was because Lazaro Sanchez was the illegitimate result of an affair between two members of two of Spain’s oldest and most respected and revered families. The closest you could get to royalty without being royal.

  The only way he’d found out about his parentage had been through a mixture of fluke and happenstance. A careless social worker had left his file unattended one day and he’d seen his birth certificate and memorised his parents’ names. When he’d investigated them afterwards nothing had come up. They were fake names.

  Then, while changing foster homes at the age of about twelve, he’d been dozing in the back of the car as two social workers had driven him to the new home. He could still remember seeing one of them glance behind, to check if he was sleeping, and then, as if she hadn’t been able to sit on the information any longer, whisper to the other social worker the rumour about who his real parents were.

  Lazaro had clamped his eyes shut completely and frozen solid in the back of the car. Even at that age he’d heard of the Torres family and the Salvadors. They were two of Spain’s most important and wealthy dynasties, with lineages stretching back to medieval times.

  When he’d had a chance he’d looked them up for more information. And even though it had been just a rumour he’d known as soon as he’d seen a picture of his father when he’d been Lazaro’s age. They were mirror images. And he’d inherited his mother’s unusual green eyes.

  He’d taken to stalking the palatial properties belonging to the Torres family and the Salvadors in an exclusive suburb of Madrid. Watching them come and go. Seeing his half-siblings. One in particular was an older boy on his father’s side—Gabriel Torres. For some reason, Lazaro had fixated on him...perhaps because they were relatively close in age.

  One day he’d seen them all sitting in a restaurant in the centre of Madrid, celebrating his half-brother Gabriel’s birthday.

  Lazaro had waited outside, and when they’d emerged—the women wearing designer dresses and dripping in diamonds, the men in bespoke suits—Lazaro had darted forward and planted himself in front of his father and Gabriel.

  ‘I’m your son!’ he’d anno
unced, shaking with adrenalin as he’d looked up at the towering man, aware of his half-brother beside him, looking at him as if he was an alien.

  It had all happened so fast. Men had appeared from nowhere and Lazaro had found himself face-down in the dirt in an alleyway beside the restaurant. His father had hauled him up by the hair and spat into his face.

  ‘You are no son of mine—and if you ever come near me or my family again you will pay for it.’

  That was when Lazaro’s ambition had been born. The ambition to one day be in a position where he was literally touching shoulders with them. Where they would have to look him in the eye. Where he would taunt them with his presence—with the knowledge that he had thrived and survived in spite of their attempts to excise him from their family histories.

  And here he was, in the same room as his father and his half-brother Gabriel—with whom he was embroiled in a bitter and ruthless battle to take over one of Madrid’s oldest indoor market buildings and redevelop it into a new space.

  His half-brother Gabriel still refused to acknowledge that Lazaro could be his brother even though—

  ‘Lazaro?’

  He looked to one side to see the reason why both his father, his half-brother and other peripheral members of both his birth families were all in the same room.

  Leonora Flores de la Vega.

  With her exquisitely beautiful face, long black hair, dark grey eyes and a willowy body that curved in and out in all the right places, she was arguably one of the most beautiful women in Spain.

  And one of the most well-connected.

  Her family might have no money—in fact that was one of the reasons for the marriage—but their name was as old and venerated as the Torres or Salvador families. And that was priceless.

  Hence the reason why Lazaro wanted to marry her. It would bring him another step closer to the inner circle that had always been shut to him, no matter how many millions he’d made. It would bring him another step closer to making his family squirm. Another step closer to ultimate acceptance.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You look very fierce.’

  He forced a smile and held out a hand to Leonora. She slipped her hand into his and Lazaro closed his fingers around hers. Nothing. Not even a twinge of response. But then he wasn’t marrying her for their chemistry. He was marrying her for something much more enduring. Securing his own legacy. Forcing those who would ignore him to acknowledge him and respect him. Finally.

  ‘Yes, fine...just a little preoccupied.’

  He saw her glance across the room to someone or something, and a faint tinge of colour came into her cheeks. She bit her lip.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Lazaro asked.

  She always seemed so composed, unruffled, it was strange to see her suddenly look a little flustered. Distracted.

  She looked back at him and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  He tightened his fingers around hers. ‘I’m glad you agreed to marry me, Leonora. I think we can have a good marriage. I think we can be...happy.’

  A shadow seemed to cross her face, and her smile faltered for a second, but then she said brightly, ‘Yes. I hope so.’

  Lazaro realised at that moment that he hardly knew this woman. He’d sought her out because of who she was, and they’d dated a few times—chaste dates. He liked her. And it was no secret that her family were in dire financial straits. He’d seen an opportunity to silence the critics of his playboy reputation and move that bit closer to where he ultimately wanted to be.

  When he’d suggested she marry him, and in so doing pay off her family’s debts, she’d said yes.

  He let go of Leonora’s hand and slipped his arm around her back, resting a hand on her hip. An intimate move. A proprietorial move. And still nothing. Not even a trip in his pulse.

  He told himself again that attraction wasn’t everything. Lust was a base emotion. No one in this milieu married for lust. He was living proof that they married for other, far more practical reasons and kept their lust hidden. Secret. He wasn’t like them. He had more control.

  Suddenly his conscience pricked hard and a picture formed in his mind. A memory, to be precise. A memory that had been haunting him with increasing and irritating frequency. As if the closer he got to making a commitment to Leonora the louder his conscience got.

  Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel guilty.

  Don’t you? asked a snide voice. So why can’t you stop thinking about her?

  ‘Her’ was a woman he’d met just over three months ago. In another city. Before he’d become engaged to Leonora. A petite woman. With long, unruly red hair. Freckles covering nearly every inch of her pale skin. Small plump breasts with tight pink nipples. A surprisingly curvy body. Russet curls at the juncture of her legs. He’d spread her there, opening her up to him, her glistening folds...

  ‘Lazaro—’

  He looked at Leonora, shocked at the vividness of that memory and the effect it was having on his body. Which was galling when the stunningly beautiful flesh-and-blood woman beside him couldn’t arouse even a heightened sense of awareness.

  She was smiling, but he could see it was forced. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  Instantly Lazaro became aware of his hand, digging into the flesh at her hip. He relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  A sense of shame engulfed him. And anger. That woman had been no one. His conscience pricked. Okay, so he’d wanted her more than he could remember wanting any other woman in a long time, but it had just been a moment out of time. In another city. Where people didn’t see him and whisper behind his back.

  ‘Isn’t that Lazaro Sanchez? They say he used to forage in the streets for food. Didn’t he used to be in a gang?’

  That woman—the stranger—hadn’t had the faintest clue who he was. And it had been refreshing. It had made the intense and immediate attraction between them even more compelling. And explosive.

  She’d been a virgin. A virgin. The words resounded in his head, still having the power to shock him. He hadn’t expected that. And it had led to the most erotic experience of his life...

  Leonora was handing Lazaro a glass of champagne now, and he shook his head slightly, as much to rid himself of unwanted and disturbing memories as anything else.

  ‘Your advisors are making motions that it’s time to make the announcement. Ready?’

  Lazaro excised all thoughts, memories and images of that woman from his mind and looked into the eyes of his future wife. The woman who would open the last doors for him into a world that had been denied him from the day of his birth.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, clinking his glass to hers with a melodic chime. ‘Let’s do it.’

  * * *

  Skye O’Hara was feeling nauseous. Literally. And she also felt sick with nerves. Not a good combination. A cold clammy sweat lay over her skin, and it had only got worse since she’d slipped into the jaw-droppingly beautiful ballroom, with its gold-panelled walls and massive crystal chandeliers.

  She’d never seen so many beautiful tall people in her life. Or such finery. Glittering sheaths of dresses. Tuxedoes. Acres of smooth honey-hued skin, making her feel even more pale and wan. Golden lights everywhere. It even smelled exclusive. The kind of scent that couldn’t be bottled. It was wealth.

  She’d dressed in a white shirt and black skirt to try and fade in with the staff. Put her unruly hair up in a tidy bun on her head. No way would she have had the wherewithal even to remotely attempt to look like one of these people. For a start she was about a foot too small, and the only redhead in sight. And she had freckles. A physical imperfection people like this would eliminate on sight, no doubt.

  She craned her head, going up on tiptoe to try and see further into the room. To see where he was.

  Her hand went to her belly where the reason for much of her nausea resided.

  And then she s
aw him in the distance. How could she not? He stood head and shoulders even above these giants. His dark blond hair was still just the right side of too long, and still messy. Stubble emphasised the hard line of his jaw. And his mouth...

  She couldn’t see it from here but she could remember it. Sculpted and firm. Hot. She remembered how it had felt on her bare skin...closing over her...

  A gap formed in the crowd and now she could see all of him.

  Her heart pounded as she drank in every long and lean inch of his six-foot-three-inch frame. Tall and broad-shouldered. Golden. Gorgeous. The sexiest man she’d ever seen. The first man she’d ever thought of as sexy. And consequently the first man she’d ever slept with.

  He was wearing a white tuxedo jacket with a white bow-tie. Black trousers. He stood out effortlessly...a little bit different from everyone else. As if he couldn’t contain some elemental part of himself even in this civilised milieu.

  Elemental. That was what it had been like that night. Wild. Visceral. Unbelievable. Unforgettable.

  Skye’s hand tightened on her belly. Unforgettable in more ways than one.

  A woman came up to her with a stern look on her face. Staff, not a guest, wearing a black uniform dress. Just as Skye was about to panic that she’d been caught out, the woman handed her a tray full of glasses of champagne and told her to stop wasting time. Relief flooded Skye. Her disguise had worked.

  She took a deep breath and started to move closer through the crowd to where he stood. Lazaro Sanchez. She’d looked him up on the internet the day after their night together—and nearly had a heart attack when she’d realised that he was a seriously wealthy and influential financier, with an extensive real-estate portfolio. A household name in his native Spain.

  And he was also a renowned playboy. There had been acres of photos of him with a veritable stream of beautiful women. It had stung more than a little to know that she’d been naive enough to fall for his smooth charm. That what had happened between them must have merely been a blip in his normal routine. A forgettable night among many. And it had stung even more that she didn’t resemble any of his usual women, so evidently he’d only slept with her because she’d been a bit...different.

 
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