Christmas Baby for the Princess

by Barbara Wallace

  Rescuing the pregnant princess!

  Faced with a royal scandal, pregnant princess Arianna fled to New York. But when a pickpocket leaves her penniless, she must turn to handsome restauranteur Max Brown for help...

  Max can’t resist rescuing this enchanting stranger, even if her mysterious past makes him wary. But as his newest (and worst!) waitress brings festive sparkle into his solitary life, can he hope Arianna is here for life...not just for Christmas?

  Royal House of Corinthia

  Royally wed...by Christmas!

  This Christmas Princess Arianna and Crown Prince Armando of Corinthia are facing the biggest challenges of their lives.

  Pregnant Arianna flees to New York to seek some privacy...only to find her very own Prince Charming!

  Christmas Baby for the Princess

  Available now

  Crown Prince Armando needs a royal bride—so why can’t he stop thinking about his assistant, Rosa Lamberti?

  Winter Wedding for the Prince

  Available December 2016

  You won’t want to miss this delightfully emotional new duet from Barbara Wallace, brimming with Christmas magic!

  Christmas Baby for the Princess

  Barbara Wallace

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  BARBARA WALLACE can’t remember when she wasn’t dreaming up love stories in her head, so writing romances for Mills & Boon is a dream come true. Happily married to her own Prince Charming, she lives in New England with a house full of empty-nest animals. Occasionally her son comes home, as well.

  To stay up-to-date on Barbara’s news and releases, sign up for her newsletter at www.barbarawallace.com.

  To Susan, Selena and Donna, whose emails help get me from page 1 to page 220. And to Peter, my personal Prince Charming. Merry Christmas, sweetie.

  Contents

  Cover

  Back Cover Text

  Introduction

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  Extract

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  HER WALLET WAS MISSING.

  Arianna was going to be sick. Stomach churning, she slumped against the brick wall and took a shaky breath. Then she checked her bag a third time.

  Lipstick. Hand sanitizer. Passport. No wallet.

  How? She distinctly remembered double-checking her bag after paying for breakfast, and her wallet had been there, nestled against the silk lining.

  Times Square. There’d been that woman who accosted her and needed help reading the subway map, and another man who jostled her while she was trying to break free. One of them must have reached in while she wasn’t paying attention...

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. This was what happened when you tried to run away from your problems: you got more. Arianna closed her eyes to keep the tears from burning their way free. A few weeks, a month at most—that was all she’d needed.

  For what had to be the one-hundredth time, she cursed her own foolishness. If she had listened to her instincts, she never would have had to run away in the first place. She wouldn’t have to decide between a loveless marriage and a royal scandal.

  Now, thanks to the pickpocket, she was going to have to make the choice sooner rather than later. Without money, she couldn’t stay in America. She had no money for food, not to mention that the owner of that terrible hotel where she was staying expected her to pay her bill at the end of the week or, as he so sweetly said, he would toss her pretty rear end on the street.

  Her child deserved better.

  Amazing how one tiny pink line could change your life. When she first missed her period, she blamed stress. After all she and Manolo had just broken up. Besides, they had only been together—like that—two times. Two misguided attempts at deepening feelings that weren’t there.

  When the second month came and went, however, she couldn’t blame stress anymore. The world stopped turning the moment she saw that extra pink line. She didn’t know what do to, so she ran. Disappeared, so she could decide which of her no-win choices was the lesser of two evils.

  Just then, a cold November wind blew down the street, the chill swirling around her shins before creeping up her skirt. Nature’s way of reminding her how serious her predicament really was. Tucking her collar about her throat, Arianna lifted her chin with royal stoicism. No sense dragging her feet. With luck, a decision about what to do would come to her while she was on a plane back to Corinthia.

  A few feet ahead, a deliveryman exited one of the businesses, maneuvering his cart over the threshold with a clank loud enough to be heard over Manhattan traffic. The place was called the Fox Club, according to the letters emblazed on the side of the maroon awning. Goodness only knew what kind of club the place was, but no matter. It was open and, hopefully, had a telephone she could borrow.

  Except it wasn’t a club. It was a time portal. How else to describe what lay on the other side of the door?

  The room looked like it belonged in an old-fashioned American detective movie, like the ones they sometimes played on television late at night. High-backed booths covered in rich burgundy leather, wood so dark it was almost black. Iridescent glass chandeliers that bathed the room with a smoky white light. The hair on Arianna’s arms started to rise. Sleek and sensual, the entire space pulsed with expectancy. A simmering promise of something for all who walked in.

  To her left, a large bar lined the wall. More dark wood, only this time the dark was accented with brass rails and shelves filled with glassware. A stocky black man, dressed to fit the setting, stood by the register. His pomade-slicked head was bent over a clipboard, on which he was making notes. The man didn’t look up when she approached.

  Arianna cleared her throat. His attention still on the clipboard, the man reached under the bar and produced a sheet of paper that he thrust toward her. “Fill this out. I’ll tell the owner you’re here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re here about the job, right?”

  He hooked a thumb at a sign that had been discreetly tucked in the corner of one of the windows. Through the glass, she could make out the backward outline that read Help Wanted.

  “I...”

  Arianna paused. It was a silly idea. Her, working in a restaurant. She’d never worked a day in her life. Not a proper job anyway.

  On the other hand, if she could find a job, she would earn money, and money meant she could postpone going home.

  She would have time to think.

  Make the right choice.

  Ignoring the voice telling her she was making yet another reckless decision, she set her bag on the bar and, before she could change her mind, announced, “Yes. Yes, I would like the job.”

  “I appreciate the enthusiasm,” a voice replied. A low, smooth voice that definitely did not belong to the bartender.

  Arianna looked up and caught her breath. If the club looked like something out of a movie, this man was the movie star. He approached her end of the bar with an elegance that was almost surreal in its smoothness, his double-breasted suit shifting and swaying in a cadence only a custom-made garment could achieve.

  His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass while his eyes were
the color of Mediterranean slate. Only a slightly crooked nose prevented his face from complete perfection. Interestingly, the flaw fit him perfectly. As did his surroundings.

  “Max Brown,” he said.

  Arianna started to nod, the way she always did when someone presented themself, then remembered where she was and quickly stuck out her hand. “Arianna.”

  “Nice to meet you, Arianna.” His grip was solid and sure. “Is there a last name?”

  “Santoro.” Arianna cringed as her real name popped out.

  Fortunately, he showed no signs of recognition. “Pleasure to meet you, Arianna Santoro. You’re interested in the waitressing job, are you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Glad to hear it. Have you filled out an application?”

  “Not yet,” the bartender said.

  “I only just walked in,” Arianna explained.

  His smile was as charming as could be. “That’s all right. Why don’t we have a seat, and we can fill in the spaces as we go along.” He motioned toward one of the booths lining the wall. “We don’t need much. Just the usual stuff. Name, address, social security number. Oh, and your firstborn child, of course.”

  Arianna’s stomach lurched.

  “Relax, I was only kidding about the firstborn part,” he said, touching her elbow. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m f-fine.” She supposed it was nerves making her feel queasy. What was she going to say when he asked for details about her identity? Squeezing the bar rail, she focused on breathing through her nose, hoping the lump would work its way back down. Having something in her stomach might help, too; it was past lunchtime after all. “Could I get some chamomile tea and dry toast?” she asked the bartender.

  “You’re ordering food on a job interview?” The man shook his head.

  Max continued to keep his hand on her elbow. “Might not be a bad idea, Darius,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind a fresh cup of coffee.”

  “You want me to go grind the beans for you, too?”

  “And grow the chamomile.”

  The bartender muttered something about his job description, but obliged nonetheless. As soon as he disappeared behind a swinging door, Arianna felt the grip on her elbow tighten.

  “Why don’t we take a seat,” Max said as he gently pulled her away from the bar rail, “and you can tell me about yourself. Starting with why you want to work for the Fox Club.”

  If only he knew... “Why does anyone want a job?” she asked as she felt herself being propelled to the booths on the other side of the room.

  “Generally, because they need money. Is that why you’re looking for work? Because you need money?”

  “Of course. Why else?”

  He looked her up and down. “No reason.”

  No sooner had she settled onto the leather bench then Darius returned with a serving tray. “The toast will be ready in a minute,” he said, his face a scowl as he set a small ceramic teapot in front of her. “You need anything else?”

  The question was directed to Max, who immediately smiled. Apparently, he found the bartender’s abruptness amusing. “I’m good. You want to sit in on this?”

  “No, hiring people is your thing. I’m perfectly happy with my supply order, thank you very much. Liquor bottles don’t make special requests.” Shooting a scowl in Arianna’s direction, he turned and headed back to the bar.

  “Don’t mind him,” Max said, shrugging off his jacket. The cloth of his white shirt strained against his biceps as he rolled up the sleeves. “He isn’t nearly as put upon as he likes people to think.”

  “If you say so.” She tried to glance over her shoulder, but the bench was too high to see over.

  “Trust me, underneath that brusque exterior beats a very soft heart. Ah, this smells good.” Coffee cup raised to his lips, he closed his eyes and inhaled. “We import the beans directly from South America. Our own custom blend.”

  “Really.” She hoped she sounded enthusiastic. Usually, she liked coffee, but lately the aroma made her queasy.

  “A bad cup can ruin the whole dining experience. Last thing we want are customers leaving with literally a bad taste in their mouth. Not if we want them to come back.”

  “No, I suppose you don’t.” She thought about the five-star meals she’d enjoyed over her lifetime. The coffee, like every aspect of the meal, was always impeccable. It never dawned on her to expect otherwise. “You’ve clearly paid a lot of attention to details.”

  “I should hope so. Details are what make or break a restaurant.”

  Then she suspected the Fox Club was “made” because Max Brown seemed to have thought of everything. Like their booth, for example. Not only did the high seat backs ensure privacy, but they’d been designed for two, essentially making them intimate little nooks.

  The atmosphere seemed even closer with someone as exceedingly...solid as Max Brown. Suddenly warm, Arianna slipped off her coat. Underneath her turtleneck sweater, her skin tingled as heat spread across it.

  Oblivious to her discomfort, her companion had put down his drink and was chivalrously pouring tea into her mug. “So, getting back to my original question, what makes you think you should work at the Fox Club? I mean, besides the fact you need a job.”

  “I, um...” She reached for a napkin and dabbed at the dampness forming on her upper lip. Where on earth was her toast? The strongest of odors was emanating from her cup, a combination of grass and another plant she couldn’t place. Had chamomile tea always smelled this noxious? Her stomach lurched again.

  Swallowing back the acid, she started over. “I don’t...I mean, there isn’t one specific reason. I...”

  “You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, grateful to have an excuse. “Very. I arrived a few...” She caught the word days before it could slip out. “Weeks ago. How did you know?”

  “Because anyone who’s lived in New York for any length of time knows the Fox Club. At least if they’re in the restaurant business they do.” He paused for another sip of coffee. “So, you’re new to the city, and you need a job.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Dunphy Hotel.” Actually, dirty and dated, the Dunphy barely qualified as habitable, let alone a hotel. It was also the last place anyone would think to look for a princess, which was why she had picked it.

  “Interesting selection,” Max remarked.

  “I’m on a budget.”

  “I see.” Something in his tone made her stomach roll again. This time, a layer of anxiety accompanied the nausea. It wasn’t possible that he recognized her, was it? Her fingers absently combed the ends of her hair. She’d been monitoring the headlines since she arrived, and thus far, there had been no mention of her or her running away. Then again, Father would no doubt take great pains to keep her running away private. Even if news had made the press, she’d done her best to alter her appearance. Following advice she gleaned from American crime shows, she cut several inches off her hair and dyed the natural blond color a deep black. Since the Corinthian royal family didn’t garner that much attention—the paparazzi preferring their British counterparts—she figured even the most ardent of royalty junkies would be hard-pressed to recognize her.

  The gray eyes assessing her from across the table, however, made her wonder. The open scrutiny would make her nervous, whether she was hiding or not. He seemed to be examining every inch of her.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, while pressing a hand to her abdomen. The churning was getting worse. She could feel the acid creeping up her esophagus again.

  “Experience...?”

  He was talking to her. “Experience in what?” she asked, pressing her lips into a tight smile.

  “Waiting tables. Now that the holiday
season is getting underway, we’re going to be busier than usual. A lot of groups book tables this time of year so we need someone who is used to juggling multiple large parties. Have you done large parties before?”

  Swallowing back the queasiness, Arianna nodded. “Several.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She’d been standing in as her father’s hostess since her mother died a decade ago and had assisted in planning more than her fair share of state dinners. Surely, memorizing dinner orders and bringing them to the table couldn’t be more difficult than memorizing dignitaries’ dossiers and defusing potential international incidents.

  “Great. Where?”

  “Where?”

  “Where did you wait tables?”

  “Oh, right. Italy,” she replied, falling back on the cover story she’d rehearsed in case someone asked about her accent. Out of all of Corinthia’s continental neighbors, the Mediterranean country was the closest in terms of language and culture.

  “Any particular location or did you serve the entire country?” While his coffee cup masked much of his mouth, she could still see the hint of a smile.

  Naturally he expected more specific details. To buy a few seconds to think, she took a drink, only to gag as soon as the liquid passed her lips. The stuff tasted as botanical as it smelled. Worse, actually. She shoved the cup to the middle of the table.

  “Miss Santoro?” Max asked.

  “I—”

  No good. Her tea, her breakfast and everything else in her stomach jumped to the back of her throat. Clamping a hand to her mouth, she sprinted from the table.

  * * *

  “Second door on your left,” Max called out as she rushed away. Not that it mattered all that much with the restaurant empty. So long as she made it to one of the restrooms, they’d be fine.

  “What the...?” Darius had just come around the bar carrying a plate of toast. “Usually it takes two or three dates before the woman runs away from you. What happened?”

  “Very funny,” Max replied. From behind him he heard the soft thud of a restroom door closing. She had made it somewhere at least. “Do me a favor and get a glass of ice water. She’s probably going to need a cold drink when she comes out.” Poor woman was as green as her tea.

 
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