Midwife's Longed-for Baby & the Prince's Cinderella Bride & Bride for the Single Dad (9781488022142)

by Anderson, Caroline; Berlin, Amalie; Taylor, Jennifer

  No words came from her, not out loud, but it was as if he heard her anyway. Quinn lifted himself, off and away from her, severing their connection before he’d even gotten control of his heart.

  On his knees between her legs, still mostly dressed, he rested and silently looked over her naked body. A heated look, at least. He still wanted her. This could be the first in a long, tangled back and forth—something she wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand. Or it could be another sign that it was once again time to run.

  She pulled her tank top down to cover her breasts, and scooted back to sit up, legs together. As if that would make her less bare to him.

  What could be more heady than knowing how little effort it had taken to have her? A kiss. Just one kiss. And she’d practically begged him.

  “I need my shorts.” She didn’t want to crawl past him to reach them, but she would if she had to.

  Without a word, he shoved the crumpled garment at her, and climbed to his feet, righting himself. Tucking in. Zipping up.

  “If you’re wondering, that was goodbye,” he announced as he bent to look under the desk for his shoe. “That’s all.”

  The goodbye she’d denied him.

  “Right,” she managed, no words coming to mind that would provide her with the same emotional distance. He’d just announced the end of whatever they’d had, as if it hadn’t ended once already. That was what he’d been doing—ending things?

  He’d had a goal, but why had she gone along with it?

  Because…chemistry.

  Because she was still vulnerable to chemistry. Because in some ways she’d be forever stupid.

  It had blinded her before. Blinded him too. They’d tried to build a marriage on chemistry—the height of bad reasons to get married.

  If he’d loved her, if he’d ever felt anything for her besides lust, he would’ve listened when she’d tried to tell him about the photos, her blackmailer. He would’ve helped her. Helped them. He would’ve cared what was happening to her. But he hadn’t. Everything always just magically worked out in Quinn Land. Fate was kinder to him than it had ever been to her, and he took it for granted.

  One last anger-filled time was his version of goodbye. There weren’t feelings attached. For either of them. She had regret, and chemistry, and that was plenty. How much worse would it be to still love him and have him never able to feel the same?

  Even weakness and chemistry-fueled unprotected sex on her office floor was better than that.

  Snagging the shoe, he straightened his sock and crammed the shoe back on.

  Following his lead, she shimmied into her underthings and stood.

  “Are you going to talk to Nettle?” There. Those were words. The thing she’d actually wanted to talk to him about before all this insanity happened.

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  She turned to grab her shoe and heard the door close.

  Whatever. She sat down and put the shoe on.

  Showering, changing, and going home would help. Get the scent of him off her. Clothe her far too bare form. Drink tea while not letting on to Mom that anything was wrong. And sleep…

  Leaning over the desk to get her bag, she noticed the large envelope she’d prepared for this talk.

  He’d left without the literature. Of course he had.

  Snatching the envelope from her desk, she ran out after him.

  Just before he got to his car, she made her way through the door at the front of the building. “Quinn… Prince Quinton.”

  Get it together.

  He turned and looked at her, left the car door standing open and met her halfway. “What else?”

  “You forgot this.” She pushed the envelope into his hand—the lights in front of the building harsh against the falling darkness.

  No contacts. No freaking real clothes. Hair back. Proof yet again that fate refused to do her any favors.

  Except one thing: no one was really about to notice her eye color, or how closely she resembled the former Princess. No one outside his employ, at least. Five cars parked in front of and behind his. How much security did he need to come to a rehabilitation center for soldiers?

  “It’s literature on the procedure. How it’s done. Case studies. So you can prepare your talk.”

  With Nettle. It was on the tip of her tongue to call the soldier by his last name again—it was a distance tactic she’d been relying on, and had noticed it bothered Quinn—but she couldn’t take a single drop more drama and hostility between them. Not until she had time to think. Until she had time to prepare for the possibility that she could’ve just irresponsibly conceived with her ex.

  Once his hand closed on the envelope, she spun and headed back inside. Shower. Shower first stop. Then get the hell out of there.

  * * *

  When Quinn had agreed to come home, he’d thought it would go a little differently.

  Summer had arrived, so naturally he’d assumed there would be loads of parties to attend where he would meet women. Drinks. Philip would fill his schedule with meetings, dinners, and appearances, telling him what to do, when, where, and what was expected of him. All that.

  All he had so far was news of his grandfather’s terminal illness, a friend who’d tried to kill himself, an ex-wife he couldn’t keep his mind or his damned hands off, and now a tricky emotional situation he was utterly unequipped to deal with.

  And a distinct lack of drinks.

  Slamming the door to his penthouse, Quinn tossed the envelope Anais has shoved at him onto the counter, and made a beeline for the fridge.

  He grabbed a tumbler, threw some ice into it, and turned toward the liquor cabinet, only to stop. That route out of his kitchen had been blocked by large lidded plastic crates. Stuff he was supposed to deal with too. Seven years’ worth of junk that people had just been sticking into crates for him…and he’d been ignoring for every leave.

  But it was better duty than that penis conversation.

  He backtracked and went the other way around the kitchen to reach for the rum, which would at least get the taste of her out of his mouth.

  Instead of kissing her, he should’ve asked how to start this conversation.

  He drained the glass entirely, felt his stomach lurch, and put the glass back down.

  The man knew what parts were malfunctioning. It was his body. They’d told him that he could probably get it fixed. He knew these things already.

  How would Philip handle this task?

  Something heartfelt. Make an appeal to his better nature—whatever that would amount to.

  He poured himself another glass and took another pull on the rum, and put the tumbler down.

  Anais had never approved of drinking, for any reason. No wine with dinner. No beer after an arduous exam. Strip poker was fine, but not with shots. Not for her. And when she’d gone he’d thrown himself into spirits whenever the opportunity presented itself. Boot camp and deployment had probably saved him from becoming an alcoholic that first year.

  He should watch the drinking since she’d strayed back into his life.

  He turned his attention to the first crate, lifting the lid and riffling through its contents.

  At the bottom of the stack of papers requiring his attention was a large yellow envelope, crammed with documents.

  He flipped it over and read: Divorce of Prince Quinton Corlow and Princess Anais Corlow née Hayes.

  Right. Bloody timely. He flung the packet over his shoulder in the vague direction of the sofa, and went back to the crate.

  Gifts.

  Books.

  Things to be looked at later, when he’d not drunk enough rum to make his eyes go blurry.

  A photo album filled with pictures taken during their whirlwind marriage.

  Half a crate
’s worth of quasi-attentive sorting painful garbage was enough for one night. There really wasn’t enough rum in his place for further torture.

  Flopping one leg over the edge of the crate, he pushed the remaining material to the far end to make room for what he had to put back in.

  A white-handled gift bag tumbled out of the moving pile of stuff, hit the bottom of the crate and spilled a small unopened package wrapped in pale blue paper and a silver bow onto the floor.

  His heart stopped the moment he saw it.

  It must’ve been the first crate the palace staff started packing for him. Copies of divorce papers. The gift he’d bought Anais for their first anniversary—the one they hadn’t made it to—an engagement ring she’d never gotten before the wedding because they’d impetuously eloped.

  He swallowed, then kicked the small box back to the side. Stuffed into a crate by someone who didn’t know its value. He put it right back there, suddenly too bitter to care about the small fortune buried under papers by his boot.

  Enough of that.

  He began dumping the bits he’d sorted out right back into the crate. Too much. All too much to deal with tonight, when all he really wanted was a shower and some sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  STILL MARRIED.

  The words rattled around in Quinn’s head, as they’d been doing since he’d seen the morning news.

  Sitting across from his ranting brother on the naughty schoolboy side of the King’s desk at least made the news feel real, if still unpleasant. He’d never inspired his brother to rant before. Father, Mother, even Grandmother, God rest them. The King never ranted, though that sad, disapproving shake of his head always hit harder.

  But, as he watched his brother pace and growl at him, he fully realized how things had changed.

  Grandfather was dying. Philip now worried about these things, and felt as if he’d inherited a problem.

  Quinn had always done his best to care when he was being lectured, but he never really had. Things always worked out, somehow.

  Well, except for his marriage.

  His day had started with a phone call and a number of emails, all directing him to programs and pages with the kind of annoying news reports they’d always lobbed at Anais, whether she deserved them or not.

  They had always been big on inappropriate sex and full of tales of devious female conniving. And big on underestimating him—though they weren’t wrong about him having wildly inappropriate…

  Who was he kidding?

  It was appropriate.

  It felt appropriate.

  It felt like a damn lightning bolt—illuminating to the point of scorching.

  One enterprising journalist had caught a picture of them together and had gone off to investigate the court records of their divorce. Although apparently there were no court records. It must be a mix-up. It had to be a mix-up.

  “Are you listening, Quinn?”

  “Yeah, I hear you. You’re angry. You don’t know how it could have happened. I wish I had the answer for you.”

  Philip sat back down and stared hard at the photo of Quinn and Anais. “What’s she wearing?”

  “Workout clothes. She…runs. Or maybe boxes. I don’t know. She works at the rehabilitation facility. She probably exercises all the time. It wasn’t some kind of cheap ploy to get my attention.”

  Even though it had gotten his attention, or just focused his attention.

  “When did you start defending her? You never…”

  “You never attacked like this before. I know you’re stressed out, but she literally did nothing wrong.” Nothing that was caught on camera, he prayed. “She’d been working out when I left Ben for the evening, and since she wanted to talk to me about his care, I went to speak with her. The documents she’s handing me in that photo are something to do with the medical care. I haven’t read them yet.”

  “Great.”

  “Yeah. So calm down. I saw the envelope of official divorce documents last night when I was going through the big crates of rubbish accumulated for me since I enlisted. I’ll go home, find the papers, and you can show them to the press. Then all this goes away.” Those words should’ve been easier to say. Shouldn’t be making his stomach churn.

  “Except that she’s here, and now the people know she’s here.” Philip rubbed both hands over his face. “Her name change means nothing. It’ll probably be used as evidence of more crimes they can attribute to her. I tried to warn her this could happen.”

  Because, no matter how horrified Philip had been by their inappropriate and spontaneous marriage, he’d always liked Anais. He still did, Quinn could see. This didn’t only upset him because it was bad publicity, no matter how inopportune the timing.

  “Doesn’t matter. She can’t win in this situation anyway, Philip. She was reviled as my wife, and then crucified when she left me. One or the other scenario should’ve made the people happy, but it didn’t. This is just melodrama to sell papers.”

  “You always say that.”

  “It always goes away,” Quinn tried again.

  “No, someone always makes it go away. But I’m not doing that this time. You show the papers to the press. This is your first official royal duty: cleaning up your own mess. I have actual things to do that don’t involve monitoring or refereeing your love life.”

  “How is this my mess? I was away in freaking boot camp when the divorce was arranged.” Quinn couldn’t help but complain a little; he was being blamed for not knowing exactly what a divorce by royal decree entailed? “I’ll handle it. But I didn’t leave her. I didn’t ask to go into the military or to be divorced. I went where I was told, and did what I was told.”

  He’d never wanted to go into the military, but had ended up there because he couldn’t think straight enough after she’d gone to make a counter offer, or even string together an argument. She’d gone, then it’d felt as if his family had given up on him too—shipped him off to be someone else’s problem.

  “You did,” Philip said, anger dispelled with the quiet words. “And we’re all proud of you for the sacrifices you made for your country, and the man you’ve become. But now that man can handle…”

  “I said I’d take care of it.” Quinn cut him off. Philip might be the heir to the eternal throne, but he wasn’t wearing the crown yet. “Don’t be too proud. I did what I had to do in the military—made a new family, found a way to fit and belong. Then I was told to come home and give that new family up, so I have. I’ll sort this out, as you’ve ordered. My love life is fully off your plate.”

  Philip didn’t argue further; he didn’t look as if he knew quite what to think or say in that moment.

  “Is he having a good day?” Quinn changed the subject as he rose and gestured to the door leading to the King’s wing.

  “He was doing well when I saw him before you arrived.”

  “Has he seen the papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll go and reassure him now.”

  As Quinn strode from the room, he heard Philip swearing under his breath behind him.

  Upset a little? Seemed to be his habit, upsetting everyone. Including himself.

  A good brother wouldn’t have admitted feeling abandoned by his family in his hour of need. He’d have sucked it up and let them continue in blissful ignorance, just happy he’d turned his pathetic life around. But that was something he’d learned from the military: bluntness had its advantages.

  A soft knock on the ornate carved door to his grandfather’s bedchamber, and he opened it enough to peek inside.

  Awake.

  Sitting by the window in the sun, book in hand.

  “Come.” The once robust voice sounded brittle and diminished. Whatever reserve of righteous anger Quinn had built up likewise diminished.<
br />
  “It’s Quinn,” he said then let himself in, paying mind to the gentle closing of the door. “I just wanted to reassure you that the situation with Anais will be sorted out.”

  “Oh? Well, that’s good then. I’m sure you and Philip can handle it.”

  Yes. Philip could handle it, Grandfather would take comfort in that, so Quinn didn’t correct him. “Don’t worry yourself over it.”

  “She looks strange with her hair dark. Does it look better in person?” Grandfather gestured to a newspaper on the table beside him.

  “Not particularly,” Quinn admitted, grinning despite the subject as he moved another stately wingback closer to where the King sat. “She looks like she’s playing dress-up in someone else’s skin too.”

  “Left a mark on her too, I think.”

  Their divorce.

  Quinn couldn’t find words for that. He nodded, and turned as another knock came, followed by the sound of a trolley being pushed into the room. “Lunch or tea?”

  “Lunch,” the King’s valet answered, stopping nearby and settling a tray across the King’s lap to begin serving.

  “I’m not hungry right now, Henry. Perhaps just tea.”

  Quinn gently dismissed Henry and headed to the cart to pour two cups, then peeked beneath the cover on the delivered plate and announced it cod, beans, cheese, good bread. The King didn’t get excited about food like a soldier did. Or even a former soldier. Anything that looked this good? Definitely worth being excited over. Unless you were terribly ill.

  “I could send for some soup, not so heavy?” Carefully, he transported the cups along with a small plate of cookies. Maybe he could tempt him there at least.

  “Have I told you how much you remind me of your father, Quinton?”

  “No. If you had, I would’ve said you were lying.” It took effort to fake this upbeat air, but it would be less upsetting to both of them if he did. At least he could pretend things were normal, as he’d been doing with Ben, he realized. He’d been pretending with everyone but Anais, and just now, Philip. “I remember my father well, and Philip is the one who is like him.”

  “Later on. When he was a young man, he was like you. Bold. Carefree. Full of energy.”