The Playboy Prince's Baby

by Sparks, Ana

  “Charlie Chaplin also drank there, you know,” she said. “And a whole lot of other famous people.”

  “Yes, but none of them was Al Capone.”

  Her next words were lost in the gust of wind that came out of nowhere, and I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her in front of me, sheltering her from the blustery weather. Once the wind died down, the leaves that had been skittering around us coming to rest on the pavement again, I loosened my grip slightly… but then felt her arms come up around mine and press them tight again.

  And when a beautiful girl is not only showing you around her city but letting you sleep at her apartment, and indicates that she wants you to keep your arms around her rather than letting go…

  You don’t argue.

  Yes, I had about five hundred doubts running through my mind at that moment. Yes, I was incredibly attracted to the girl, and had been since I first laid eyes on her. I’d been unable to sleep soundly at her apartment with the awareness that she was in the next room, and in bed. And the way her face had lit up when she saw that I’d brought her food had made my own heart sing in a way it never had before.

  But I was fighting that with every ounce of my being. Not because I didn’t want to sleep with her. I did. Badly.

  But there was something different about Erika. So different, in fact, that it had colored every thought I’d had about her. This girl had allowed me to sleep in her bar overnight, and had then cooked me breakfast and taken me for coffee. She’d taken me to her home and let me sleep on her couch. She’d brought me out for pizza and to the most amazing bar I’d ever experienced.

  And she’d done it all without having any idea of who I was. Hell, when I’d told her my full name, she’d stared at me so blankly that I almost felt bad about having expected her to know who I was.

  She didn’t know I was a prince. And yet she was treating me like I was the most important person in the world.

  And never mind the sizzling heat that jumped up between us every time we stared at each other too long.

  That something different, though, was stopping me from doing anything with her. It didn’t make any sense to me. I’d never been a man to hesitate when it came to women.

  And yet when it came to Erika, I wasn’t sure that taking her to bed was the right thing to do. Maybe because I realized that if I did that, I would be giving away a part of myself that I had never given away before, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that.

  Though maybe I was just making things more complicated than they needed to be. Chances were good that she didn’t think me that important, after all, and that I was taking the whole thing too seriously.

  Still. Something without a name was holding me back. Something I’d never felt before.

  We adjusted so that she was no longer standing right in front of me, her hand coming to mine like it had always been meant for me, and strolled back to her apartment that way, neither of us talking much, the night wind rushing around us and pinning us together as we walked.

  And though I wasn’t ready to give myself up to this thing yet, I had to admit—only in my head—that I was happier than I thought I’d ever been, here with this stranger in a strange land, seeing a city I’d only ever dreamt of, and refusing to think about the fact that at some point I’d have to leave her and return home.

  * * *

  That night, I slept on the couch again, and this time I actually did sleep—partially because I was too tired to stay awake for one second longer. Partially because Erika piled so many blankets on top of me that it was nearly impossible not to succumb to the warmth and comfort of it all.

  The next morning, we both slept long past sunrise, and by the time we rose and decided that we needed to get breakfast, that breakfast was something more like lunch. We still managed a brunch, complete with potatoes, sausage, biscuits, eggs, pancakes, and champagne—mixed with orange juice so that it seemed more responsible, Erika said with a laugh— and then we went out to explore the city in the day.

  It was something I hadn’t done up to this point, having arrived and immediately taken to the nightlife, and I was amazed at the beauty of the place, and the views that changed with every step. We saw a park that was themed like The Wizard of Oz, and an observatory filled with plants and even trees. We walked through a few art museums—stopping for something Erika called ‘Chicago barbecue’ in the afternoon—and then walked through more famous parks of the city.

  By the time the evening rolled around, I felt as if I must have seen everything the city could possibly offer. When I said so, though, Erika shook her head.

  “Not quite yet,” she murmured, a smile hidden at the corner of her mouth.

  When I asked her what else we could possibly fit into one day, though, she just smiled and grabbed my hand, tugging me along behind her toward what turned out to be a corner where it looked like every cab in the entire city had congregated.

  A muttered set of instructions from Erika—too quiet for me to catch—and we were zooming along through the streets of Chicago, the dimming sunlight now sporting the start of the lights of the city.

  When we pulled to a stop fifteen minutes later, dark had truly fallen, in the way that happens when you’re surrounded by buildings and can’t actually see the sun going down, and we found ourselves at…

  “The river?” I asked, surprised. “Weren’t we just here earlier?”

  “We were,” she confirmed, pulling me out of the cab and turning toward the water. “But it’s different at night.”

  A quick glance and I could see that she was right. Whereas it had been all people and birds and bright light and action during the day, at night, the Chicago River became something else entirely.

  We were surrounded by buildings, still, each of them lit with its nighttime lights, and those lights reflected off the water like stars, in reds and greens and whites. The bridges over the river had been lit up, and the boats that had run during the day were quiet, now.

  When we walked across the path that meandered along next to the river, and out onto one of the footbridges, I felt the world pause around us, the noise dying away, the activity slowing to a halt.

  Erika leaned on the rail, staring down into the water, and smiled softly. “This is my favorite place—and time—in Chicago,” she said quietly. “Here on the river, where all the action takes place during the day. But at night, it all goes sort of still, you know? It’s like the whole city comes here to breathe.”

  I reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from her cheek, too entranced by the moment, by her beauty, to keep my hands off her.

  “And you come here to breathe with it?” I asked.

  She turned to me, her eyes large and dark in the light reflecting up off the water. “Something like that,” she whispered.

  Remember that thing I’d said about not wanting to give a part of myself away, and not being ready for that step? Yeah. In that moment, looking at that beautiful girl as she glowed in the darkness—all wavy, dark hair and big brown eyes—I felt the doubt fly away from me and leave only a deep need in its place.

  I’d never met anyone worth losing myself to before. But this girl in front of me? Something was telling me that she was worth that, and so much more.

  I bent forward and brushed my lips against hers, my hand under her chin, and a moment later, before I even knew what was happening, I had her turned so that her back was to the rail, my body pressing against hers as I kissed her more deeply, putting all the longing I’d been feeling all day into that one first kiss—and never regretting a moment of it.

  I knew where this was heading. I knew we’d end up in her bed. The passion between us was too big, too undeniable. My body was already vibrating with my need for her. Feeling her legs parting slightly with the kiss, I knew she was telling me that she knew it as well as I did—and that she was agreeing.

  I pressed harder against her, groaning softly, and she reached up and wrapped her hands in my hair, pulling me closer.

  “I
f you keep doing that,” I gasped, breaking the kiss for a moment, “We’re not going to make it back to your apartment before I take this further.”

  Her eyes glinted up at me in the darkness, heated and wanting. “Then I guess we’d better find a cab. Quickly.”

  Chapter 8

  Erika

  I was in that completely wonderful, hazy, dreamy sort of place that you get to after a night of really good sex and then deep, dreamless sleep. And I was freaking loving it.

  I didn’t get to sleep this soundly often, partially because I was generally trying to sleep when it was bright and sunny outside—the thrills of being a bartender—and also because I didn’t generally spend entire weekends wearing myself out the way I just had.

  I smiled to myself at that thought, remembering the man who had spent that weekend with me. The one who’d also spent so much time wearing me out. I remembered all the things we’d talked about and done, and the way my skin had sparked with electricity every time he’d touched me—whether we were out in public and it was casual, or in my bedroom, where it was a whole lot more serious.

  I remembered him hovering above me in the semi-darkness, his dark curls falling down over his forehead, and staring into my eyes as he moved so slowly that I thought I might scream, parting my legs and sliding deeply into me, and then beginning to move as I clutched his body, gasping for more.

  I remembered the increased pace. The scratching, biting need that had built up inside me. The whispered words in my ear as he moved in and out of me, getting me closer and closer to the edge. The growl he’d let out when we reached it—together—and flew into the depths of orgasm.

  I’d thought it was a whole lot more than just one-night-stand-level sex, even then. And when we’d come back to earth, we’d made a promise to each other that it was more than just a one-time thing. We’d agreed, smiling with satisfaction, that we’d do this same thing next weekend.

  And that we’d start with the sex next time.

  I reached over, my eyes still closed, grinning and tired. When my fingertips found him, I ran them down his arm, enjoying the warmth of his skin and the smooth feel of him. For a man with such a gruff look, between the messy curls and thick stubble, his skin was incredibly, surprisingly soft. I was starting to think that it was just the first of many things that made him stand out from anyone else I’d known.

  Stand out like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Like the brightest star in the sky. Like the lone streetlamp on a dark, misty Chicago night. The one you hustled toward and then stood under as you stared into the darkness.

  The one you didn’t really want to leave, because it felt like safety.

  God, I really had to get back into writing. It was like the poetry was just coming out of my ears, now. There was no way I should have been thinking that poetically when I was this tired. When I was this—

  A sudden, thunderous banging on the door of my apartment cut the thought right off, and I jumped out of bed like some sort of ninja.

  Then I was shocked to find myself running for the door. Which seemed completely insane, now that my brain was catching up, because when someone was pounding on your door, did you really respond to it like they might be there to actually rescue you from something bad?

  No. But you also didn’t ignore it. My parents might have been poor, but they’d raised me well, and I knew that pounding like that meant something important was going on. It was also incredibly loud. So getting it to end as quickly as possible would be ideal. I wanted to get there, figure out who the hell needed something, get rid of them, and then crawl back into bed with Francisco.

  Preferably, to go back to sleep. Though that dreamy spot I’d been enjoying was long gone at this point.

  When I got to the door, stubbing my toe along the way on the guitar case I’d left lying on the floor, my brain finally caught up with my feet and told them to stop. It halted my head as well, and demanded that my head move itself toward the peep hole so I could at least see who was outside of my door before I threw it open.

  To my utter dismay, I saw uninformed police on the other side of my door. There were only two of them, and they weren’t exactly aiming their guns right at me, but I drew away quickly and shuffled backward several steps before I could stop myself.

  I had never had cops come to my door before. Even when I was in college and we’d played music too loud or had parties where everyone got drunk, I’d managed to escape the cops being called on us.

  And let me tell you one thing: Even if you know you haven’t done anything wrong, having the cops show up at your door and bang on it like they mean to take out one of those battering rams and break in if you don’t answer them is intimidating.

  I knew I hadn’t done one damn thing wrong. I never did anything wrong. I needed things to keep going reasonably well in my life too much for me to risk it. Not that I would have, anyhow. My parents had raised me to be a good girl who always did the predictable, decent thing.

  So what the hell were the cops doing banging on my door at the crack of dawn on a Monday morning?

  “Can I help you?” I shouted through the door.

  “Erika Saunders?” one of the men outside responded.

  Right, answering a question with a question. That never boded well.

  “That’s me,” I replied, my voice noticeably cooler, my eyes narrowed on the door—not that they could see that. “Can I help you with something, officers?”

  “We’re looking for Francisco de la Laros. Send him out, please, and we’ll get out of your hair.”

  And at that moment, the bad feeling I’d already been feeling got a whole lot worse. Yeah, it was great that they weren’t there for me, but why the hell were they looking for Francisco?

  Wait. Did they even have the right Francisco? I couldn’t really remember what he’d said his last name was, so I couldn’t be sure that this was the right guy. Even if it was, how would they have randomly tracked him to my apartment?

  And was I allowed to tell the cops that I thought they were probably wrong? Or was there some sort of unspoken agreement that you just sort of… let them figure it out for themselves?

  Better, I finally decided, to at least open the door and talk to them. Maybe I could talk them out of their belief that the Francisco in my bed was the de la Laros person they were looking for.

  When I opened the door, though, my face arranged into the most reasonable lines I could manage at that hour in the morning, the cop in front—a guy with aviator glasses and the face of a fourteen-year-old—held up a piece of paper. The paper had a picture on it that looked like it could have been a mugshot.

  And that mugshot definitely showed my Francisco. A smoother, more well-coiffed version of him. One that looked like he’d been at some sort of high-society party. But I recognized the curls. And the eyes. And the nose.

  And my heart sank at least three inches in my chest. Because… my God. I’d been sleeping with a freaking wanted man!

  * * *

  I watched the cops march Francisco through the door of my apartment, still so shocked over this whole insane situation that I could hardly comprehend what was going on, and finally decided I’d better start asking some questions.

  “What exactly are you arresting him for?” I asked the young-looking cop. “Something serious?”

  God, let it be something not-serious, I prayed quickly. Let it be something stupid. Something that made it okay for me to have started to fall for him. Because I didn’t think I could handle falling for an actual criminal.

  But if I’d been falling for someone who just got slightly on the wrong side of some silly rule…

  “Drunk and disorderly,” the cop answered quickly. “And the fact that he skipped out on the security he’s supposed to maintain while he’s in the country.”

  I frowned, trying to unpack all of that, and caught on the last line before I could bother with the first—which, I assumed, had to do with the fight he’d had with the guy he’d said he fired
in our bar.

  “Security?” I asked blankly, frowning at the cop.

  He gave me half of a shrug. “Sure. When you’re a prince and you come into the country, you’re supposed to follow specific rules. His are even more strict, because of his reputation. And he broke them—which means we got the call to haul him in. Sorry that he mixed you up in it. You have a good day, Ms. Saunders.”

  And he walked out of my apartment and closed the door behind him, leaving me with my jaw hanging open in shock.

  Did he just say ‘prince’?

  Chapter 9

  Francisco

  Look, I know this might shock you, but this wasn’t the first time I’d been arrested.

  In a foreign country.

  On charges of drunk and disorderly.

  And on further charges of being a man my brother wanted watched over. Though I guessed that last thing didn’t really amount to charges, but rather something that was always hanging over my head. Following me around like a shadow that I didn’t really want and had definitely never asked for.

  And yeah, once again, I know how that makes me sound. Right now, you’re probably thinking I’m some terrible person who goes around making trouble and constantly getting arrested. But that’s not quite true, either.

  The cops hustled me into the back of their car and then got into the front seats themselves, neither of them overly serious about the whole thing. Because the truth was, it wasn’t that serious. I mean, aside from breaking a few little laws—problematic, I’ll admit—and getting rid of the guy my brother had hired to watch me, I really hadn’t done anything wrong.

  Come to think of it…

  “Did my security detail call you?” I asked gruffly, the sleep still heavy in my voice.

  The cop sitting in the passenger seat—the one wearing the glasses—turned around, his face mock serious. “You mean Roger de la Villa? I don’t know that he called us to turn you in, but according to our records, he was the other man involved in the fight that led us right to you.”