by Mindy Neff
The Prince & The Mommy
The Cinderella Escape - Book #3
Neff, Mindy
THE PRINCE & THE MOMMY
Copyright © 2020 by Neff, Mindy
Originally published by Harlequin Enterprises under the title: The Playboy & the Mommy
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
* * *
Editor: Denise Zaza
Cover Art: Sandra Paul
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
15. The Rancher’s Mail-Order Bride
Also by Mindy Neff
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chelsa Lawrence sat on the enclosed porch of her rented bungalow, her arms wrapped around her two daughters. A storm had slammed into the Mediterranean coast, fierce and unforgiving, turning the small island of San Alegra into a state of unstable anticipation. The surf pounded and the wind howled. It was almost midnight and Chelsa knew the girls should’ve been in bed hours ago, but the fear of tidal waves and rooftops blown off by winds had both little girls huddled close, watching the specter of nature unfold.
Their imaginations were vivid, as was their mother’s. After all, the children’s books Chelsa wrote, The Adventures of Water Babies, were fashioned after her own girls, Emily and Sophie. Chelsa marveled at their little minds, their endless questions, and used them in the stories she wrote.
But tonight her thoughts weren’t on sweet, innocent stories. Perhaps it was the ferocious intensity of the storm, but she felt a sense of foreboding.
Her arms tightened. She would keep her daughters safe.
“Momma, you’re squishing the bref out of me.”
“Sorry, Sophie.” She eased her grip on her four-year-old.
“Momma?” This time it was Emily’s quiet voice. “Do you think that boat will hit the rocks?”
“Hmm?” She hadn’t noticed a boat.
Sophie wiggled out of her hold and perched forward on the bench. “Pirates,” she whispered.
“There’s no such thing as pirates,” Emily admonished. Being six, she felt her knowledge was much more superior than her younger sister’s.
“Uh-huh! ’Member Hook? And Tinker Bell?”
“That’s just movies, silly. Right, Momma?” Superior, she might be, but still a little girl who got scared.
“Yes, sweetie. It’s just a movie. But it’s fun to imagine.” Of course, there were still pirates roaming the seas, but none so dramatic as the movies might depict.
“See!” Sophie chirped and rested pudgy hands on equally pudgy knees. Emily rolled her eyes because her little sister still didn’t get it.
Chelsa stood. Pirate or not, that boat was in grave danger. The sea roiled and spat, tossing the sleek craft around like a rubber duck in a washing machine. Waves crashed over the rocks that jutted maybe fifty yards off shore, cascading over the sides in a beard of frothy foam. It appeared the skipper was attempting to head for the beach, but the gusty winds and churning swells thwarted his efforts.
Her heart started to pound and adrenaline kicked in. The beach was pitch-black, illuminated only by the light of a partial moon against the foamy crest of the waves. The power was out in the house and the phone lines were down. Cell service on this island was non-existent. If the ship crashed, there would be no way to call for help.
But then, Chelsa shouldn’t even be considering calling for help. She had no business getting involved, especially since there was no telling who was aboard that ship—including a modern-day pirate.
And at all costs, she had her children to think about. Their safety.
In a matter of two weeks or less, their lives could very well be in danger. All of their lives.
A sinister blast of wind sprayed sand and sea salt, testing the strength of the screen door. The pounding of angry water against unforgiving rock superseded the sound of splintering wood as the yacht lost its control against nature and slammed into the rocks. Like straw in a dust devil, debris scattered, whirling, projected into the air, flung high and wide at the mercy of the storm.
And in that instant before impact, Chelsa saw someone dive for safety. The girls were jumping now, both terrified and excited.
“Momma! The rocks breaked the boat!” Sophie screamed.
“Momma! A man jumped over the side!”
“Yes,” Chelsa said, her hand hesitating at the screen door, indecision screaming within her.
“Go get him, Momma.”
“Wait,” she said. “Hush, now.” She had to think, didn’t quite know what to do.
“But he’s not swimming. He’s just floating,” Emily said.
“You gotta get him, Momma,” Sophie said, her solemn blue eyes round with worry. “Willy can’t save him in the big waves.”
She was talking about the whale in Free Willy. Her children watched entirely too many movies, Chelsa decided.
And they expected her to be a heroine. She’d never felt less like a heroine in her life. But with two sets of expectant, round eyes looking up at her, she had little choice.
“Stay right here. Both of you. Don’t move a muscle. Do you understand?” At their twin nods, Chelsa kicked off her sandals and raced across the cool sand.
She saw him surface. Like a bodysurfer with the aid of unseen hands, he rode the crest of a wave, the momentum dumping him onshore right at her feet. Battling winds that slashed at her clothes, whipping her hair in a wild frenzy, she flipped him over, gripped him beneath his arms and tugged. Wet and shaking, adrenaline lent her strength as she dragged him free of the fierce current.
The horrendous weather was like an omen, an evil one. She felt exposed, yet knew she was overreacting. Her life was in chaos, though, and the weight of it was sucking her down, much like the ocean was swallowing the remains of the boat.
She set those thoughts aside for the moment and checked her beached sailor. He was breathing, thank goodness, but his eyes were closed.
“Can you hear me?” she shouted over the force of the storm.
He didn’t respond. Unconscious. And no wonder. With the way that yacht had exploded against the rocks, it was a miracle he was even drawing a breath.
“Is he dead?”
“Is there any blood?”
Her head whipped around. “I thought I told you girls to stay on the porch!”
“Sophie got scared,” Emily blamed.
“Nuh-uh!”
“Stop it, both of you. I don’t need this right now.”
The girls flanked her, wrapping their arms around her in apology.
Chelsa took a steadying breath. “Sorry, girls. Momma didn’t mean to shout.”
“That’s okay,” Emily said. “What are you going to do with the man?”
“Get him to the house, I guess.” And get her daughters out of the open, exposed, where anyone might see or harm th
em. Fear over being seen doubled her determination. Stretched out on the wet sand, the man appeared to be over six feet. And he outweighed her by a good eighty pounds.
But there was no one else to rely on for help, a truth she’d become all too familiar with lately.
With the hem of her dress swirling around her ankles, threatening to trip her, she waded into the tide and snagged a piece of canvas before the surf could carry it out again. She didn’t know a lot about fancy yachts, but it was obvious this was part of the sail. Once again, she realized this man should be counting his blessings. It would take horrendous force to rip this sturdy canvas. It was a wonder this man’s body wasn’t in the same shape.
Praying she wasn’t setting herself up for a lawsuit over moving an individual who might have a neck injury, she rolled him onto the canvas and tugged.
His feet cut deep furrows in the sand as she backtracked the hundred or so yards to the bungalow. Straining, her shoulder muscles feeling like they were on fire, she managed to drag him into the house—though the porch steps scraping along his back gave her grief and made her wince. The girls were more hindrance than help, but she didn’t have the heart to tell them so. They were so proud of themselves for doing their part.
For an instant, she considered making him comfortable outside, on the screened-in porch, but that offended her ingrained Southern hospitality. Her own mother would’ve had a fit.
By the time she had him settled in the bed, she was exhausted. Candles burned, casting a shadowy glow over his still features.
When she got a good look, she sucked in a breath.
Oh, no. Handsome as sin. Easily recognizable.
Her heart raced as she charged to the window and jerked down the shade.
“Emily, lock the doors. Sophie, go with your sister.”
“Why—”
“Just do as I say. And stay inside.”
The last thing she needed was the possibility of lurking photographers, some hungry journalist snapping pictures of her girls. And where this man went, paparazzi were sure to follow.
She took another breath and looked back at the unconscious, soaked man lying in her bed. Hands trembling, she fisted them and ordered herself to relax.
There was work to be done still—the highly interesting task of undressing this virile, exquisitely thrilling celebrity.
The royal Don Juan who set both Latin and American women’s hearts aflutter.
Even in repose, he oozed charm. And the instant she touched his bare skin, she learned that a harried mother of two from Mississippi wasn’t in any way immune to the magnetic draw of Prince Antonio Castillo of Valldoria.
* * *
Someone was pounding on his head. He pried his eyes open and was immediately sorry that he’d done so. The throbbing increased.
But the vision wasn’t too bad. An angel, he thought.
Before he could fully appreciate the magnificent sight, two cherubs bounced on the bed. Well, only one of them bounced. The other stood next to the bed, right by his head, poking at the dimple in his cheek that stayed indented whether he was smiling or not.
And he was not at the moment. The pain hammering away at his temples was excruciating.
Three females hovered over him—two miniature and one nicely put together. Very nicely put together.
He felt at a distinct disadvantage. Even under the incessant throb of his head, he had enough sense to realize he was naked beneath the wedding ring quilt. And he didn’t imagine he’d been the one to do the undressing.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” the lovely vision said.
Ah, Antonio thought. Southern. He was a man who had a weakness for women with those sexy American drawls.
Then he realized what she’d called him, and he laughed. A big mistake. Nausea churned at the sharp pain, but he dismissed it. He’d crashed million-dollar race cars and been in worse shape. A knock on the head from a damaged sailboat was of little concern.
“Good morning to you, too. And Antonio will do fine. My brother, Joseph is the heir, I’m just the spare. Where am I?”
“On your island.”
“Valldoria’s not an island.”
“No, San Alegra.”
“Ah. The land of happiness. At least familiar ground.”
Chelsa put a trembling hand on Sophie’s shoulder before the child could poke Antonio Castillo’s dimples again. That smooth-as-silk Latin accent sent shivers up and down her spine. The man might denounce his title, but he was still a prince by right of birth. A reputed playboy prince.
Even with the goose-egg-size bump on his golden brown forehead that was fast turning an interesting shade of purple, he was handsome as sin. The myriad photographs taken of him around the globe didn’t do him a bit of justice.
Good night, if she wasn’t careful, she’d be the one stroking those dimples rather than her daughter.
“Did you buy the whole ocean?” Emily asked.
“No, little diosa. Just the land. And technically it is my family who owns it.”
She giggled. “What’s dossa?”
“Diosa,” Antonio pronounced, tickled by the little girl’s infectious laughter. He appreciated laughter in any form. “Goddess.”
The little cherub next to the bed crept closer. “Like da lil’ mermaid?”
“Something like.”
“Girls, go have your breakfast and leave Mr., uh...”
“Tony,” he supplied, realizing she was hesitating for fear of creating a faux pas over calling a prince by his surname. But Antonio wasn’t one to stand on ceremony. Any ceremony. “And you are?”
“Chelsa. These are my daughters, Emily and Sophie. Go now, girls.”
“But Momma,” they chorused.
“No buts.” Her voice was soft, with a firmness that commanded instant attention and action. “Sophie, you let Emily pour the milk this time.”
Antonio noticed that the littlest one started to object then apparently thought better of it. Ignoring the evil ghoul in his head wielding a hammer, he got a tighter grip on the quilt when Emily bounced down off the mattress. His lips kicked up in admiration as he watched the girls scramble to obey their mother.
And oh, what a mother, he thought, always one to appreciate loveliness. She wasn’t beautiful like the starlets he normally gravitated toward. “Wholesome” was how he’d describe this woman. Blond hair, streaked by nothing stronger than the sunlight, created a curly, shoulder-length halo around a smooth, peaches-and-cream complexion. He imagined the humidity would play the very devil with all that natural curl. A sprinkling of freckles kissed the bridge of her nose. Clear blue eyes, unadorned by cosmetics, were round and intelligent...and just a bit wary.
To Antonio’s way of thinking, it was a sin for any woman to display wariness in his presence, and he set about to correct it.
“Tell me, bella, is it just Chelsa, or do you have a last name?”
She took a step back and folded her hands at her waist. Short nails, he noted, no artificial tips or polish. And no wedding ring.
The wariness he’d detected flickered in her eyes like sparklers on Independence day. His curiosity and hero’s heart went on full alert. He loved women of all shapes and sizes, their smell, their softness, their quirks. It was both a talent and an obsession to learn what made them tick.
But patience was a virtue and Antonio had plenty of it. Any man with a set of eyes could see that beneath the exterior of reserve were banked passions and fire. He wanted to know what made her hide behind all that Southern poise.
At last she unknotted her hands and tugged at a wrinkle on the quilt. “It’s Lawrence. Chelsa Lawrence.”
He reached out and took her hand in his. “I am pleased to meet you, Chelsa Lawrence. And I believe I may well owe you my life.” Slowly he brought her fingertips to his lips and kissed the back of her knuckles, his gaze holding hers. “Thank you, bella.”
Chelsa wasn’t sure she could draw a breath, much less speak, but she gave it a shot. “You’re...�
� She cleared her throat and straightened, easing her hand away. Good night, she hadn’t felt a zing like that in a long time...if ever. “You’re welcome. And speaking of saving, I looked as best I could with the storm and all, but I didn’t see evidence of anyone else with you when the yacht hit the reef.”
“No. I was captain and crew alone.”
She shouldn’t have been astonished, but she was. “On a ship that size? Not very sensible.”
“Ah, but I am excellent at what I do. All that I do.”
She saw the flirtatious challenge in his dark eyes and wickedly sensual smile. She might have been put off by bragging, but his widely publicized reputation substantiated the claim.
Latin Lover. At last she understood the meaning, or at least the draw. With a mere look, a simple touch, he made her feel utterly, exquisitely female. And with a probable concussion at that. Talk about potent, she thought, barely resisting the urge to fan herself.
But she hadn’t traveled—or run, rather—across an entire continent to swoon beneath the power of a man’s confidence and sex appeal.
“Perhaps not all that you do. Otherwise your fancy boat wouldn’t look like a pile of toothpicks littering the beach.” She saw his dimples deepen, saw the corners of his lips start to climb and knew she had to get out of here. “I imagine you’re probably hungry, so I’ll go fix you some breakfast. It’ll only be cold cereal. The power’s still out from the storm.”
Her hormones screaming like a Mississippi steam engine, she fled the room, the sound of his soft laughter following in her wake.
Dear heaven, he was the wrong man to elicit such a powerful response. A reputed playboy, Prince Antonio Castillo of Valldoria was both recognizable and newsworthy worldwide, not only in the tabloids and gossip columns, but in the sports pages of every major newspaper across the country.
