Confessions of a Pregnant Cinderella
Page 8
He called the air steward and said, ‘Tell Philippe we have a route-change. I’d like to go straight to Andalucía.’
* * *
Skye twisted her hair up onto her head and kept it in place with a long paintbrush. She’d found a great spot on the upper floor of the hacienda to work—an empty room that led up to the roof, with huge windows and lots of light. A natural studio.
She picked up a piece of charcoal and looked at the photo propped nearby and smiled. She was doing what she loved most. Capturing people on paper. And it was fulfilling two purposes—giving her the means to make enough money to buy herself a flight home, and stopping her dwelling on the rage she felt for Lazaro Sanchez, who had gone to Madrid two weeks ago and left her behind like some unwanted baggage.
But as she stood in front of the makeshift easel and the blank piece of paper now, instead of drawing the face in the photo she started drawing another one that was seared into her memory like a brand. One with beautiful symmetry but hard lines. One with a world-weariness etched into every pore, but also a curious vulnerability.
After a few minutes of frantic sketching Skye stood back. It was Lazaro. Laid bare. Or, she realised in that moment, how she felt about him laid bare.
A surge of panic rose up from her gut, along with rejection of the very notion that she could be feeling anything for him. Especially after the last two weeks.
But she had to acknowledge painfully that even if they’d never met again, if she’d never fallen pregnant, she would still have held him up as an impossible standard that no other man could ever hope to reach.
Skye quickly moved the sketch of Lazaro into her folder and took out a clean piece of paper. She broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of him ever seeing it, because as far as she was concerned it screamed out how she felt about him.
Just then she heard a noise, and every tiny hair stood up on her body. She looked around and there he was. Dressed in a three-piece suit and looking as pristine as she felt dusty and dishevelled. She might have thought he was an hallucination if the physical effect on her body hadn’t been so immediate and visceral.
An intense rush of emotion rose before she could control it. Anger and relief. All mixed with desire. She felt an urge to rip that suit from his body, to expose the elemental man she’d met in Dublin. The man who had torn her world apart.
The man who had abandoned her for a fortnight.
Lazaro stepped into the room and said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Skye took a breath to compose herself, all of a sudden very conscious of her jeans and vest top. Of the paintbrush keeping her hair in place. She probably had streaks of charcoal on her face.
She said, as coolly as she could, ‘I’m sketching. Almudena said it was okay to come up here and use this space.’
‘Sorry,’ Lazaro said, coming closer and not sounding sorry at all. ‘I should rephrase that. Why have you been in the local town’s market square doing portraits of people like a common hustler?’
Skye fought to control her tumultuous emotions. ‘I’ve been doing portraits to make some money. It’s a good spot to drum up business.’
Skye could see the anger turning his eyes a vivid green, and the tautness in his jaw, but she refused to be intimidated.
‘And why on earth are you doing that?’
‘To make enough money to buy a flight back to Dublin.’
Something caught his eye behind her and he went over and picked up the photo she’d printed out. He looked at her, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it was toxic. ‘What...who is this?’
‘It’s a commission. The man’s daughter wants me to sketch a portrait for his birthday. He’s eighty. A beautiful soul.’
Lazaro put the picture down and drew his phone out of his pocket. After a couple of seconds he handed it to her. She saw some grainy pictures of her in the square, smiling at someone and accepting money.
She winced inwardly. These were paparazzi shots.
The headline screamed: We Found Her! Forced to make a living on the streets, even though the father of her baby is Lazaro Sanchez, one of the richest men in the world!
Skye handed the phone back, refusing to feel guilty. ‘I had no idea there were paparazzi here.’
Lazaro held up his phone. ‘For all I know you called them. When you should have been calling me, to let me know you wanted to leave. Instead you’ve created a public sensation—again—while looking like a student.’
Skye put her hands on her hips. Hurt and anger was an explosive mix in her belly. ‘Well, I’m sorry that I don’t meet your high sartorial standards, but I’m afraid that with limited means and an even more limited wardrobe this is as good as it gets. And,’ she continued hotly, ‘do I need to remind you of how hard you are to contact? I tried calling you, but when I realised after week one that you’d obviously decided to leave me to my own devices, I knew I had to take care of myself.’
Colour scored along Lazaro’s cheekbones, but it brought her no sense of satisfaction. It only reminded her of how he’d looked in the throes of making love. Flushed cheeks, glittering eyes and an intensity on his face that had transformed him from gorgeous into seriously—Stop it!
‘I did not call the paparazzi,’ she said. ‘Was it always your plan to get me out of Madrid and away from polite society, so that you could hide me away like something unwanted on the bottom of your shoe?’
* * *
Lazaro’s conscience pricked hard. He had hoped that by bringing her here the whole situation might somehow magically fade away. But the gods were laughing in his face at his paltry efforts to control this situation.
Desire for Skye pulsated through his blood in hot waves. He could see where the top button of her jeans was undone, to accommodate her growing belly. And from where he stood he could see the tantalising swell of her cleavage in the dip of that ridiculously flimsy vest. It looked more voluptuous.
He’d been to two functions in the past two weeks where he had been surrounded by sleek and coiffed women, and yet this one made his blood surge like no other. Even dressed like this.
Skye stuck her chin out. ‘I don’t think this is going to work. Frankly, I have better things to be doing than languishing in this luxurious outpost, waiting for the moment you deem it fit to return like an overlord.’
Lazaro watched in disbelief as she put the photo and the blank piece of paper that was on the easel into a leather folder and then walked away.
She was almost at the door when he heard, coming from deep inside him, ‘Stop!’
She stopped. And turned around. Her expression was part belligerent and part something else far more ambiguous. It unnerved him. He was transfixed by her ability to stand up to him. It was absurdly refreshing in spite of everything.
He was also mesmerised by the passionate expression on her face. Her flushed cheeks.
He’d closed the distance between them before he’d even made the conscious decision to move.
Her eyes were like bright jewels. Tendrils of golden-red hair fell around her face and he had a dark suspicion that a paintbrush was the device being used to hold the unruly mass precariously on her head.
There was an inferno inside Lazaro, burning away any rational thought. He’d been right to avoid coming back here. She stirred up too much for him.
He could have handled it if it was just desire—he knew how to deal with that and it never lasted. But she stirred up other things as well. Things he didn’t want to deal with. And yet he couldn’t let her walk out of this room.
Skye was talking. ‘...one more day and I’ll have enough to fly home. I’ll be out of your hair and I’ll let you know when the baby is born, okay? We can meet then and decide what to do. But this...’ she waved a hand around her ‘...this is not working.’
She was about to turn away again when Lazaro reached out and caugh
t that hand. ‘Wait—please.’
* * *
Skye stopped breathing at the rough tone in his voice. He was barely holding her hand, yet it felt as intimate and provocative as if he’d kissed her. It was caught up in the air in his, as if he was about to pull her into a dance.
She looked at him and saw a million things in those mesmerising green eyes. Anger and affront that she’d dared to stand up to him. But also heat...the same heat she felt rushing through her veins right now in a dizzying rush.
Tension crackled between them, but now it was a different kind of tension. She could still feel the anger thrumming through her system—anger at him for coming into her life so cataclysmically, sending her and it spinning off in a new direction. But, treacherously, all she could think of were those long nights of X-rated dreams. Waking feeling cold and bereft—which was ridiculous. She’d slept with this man once.
Twice, reminded a wicked inner voice.
Her anger was turning into something much more dangerous and volatile. Anger at how he made her feel, at how easily he could seduce her just with his presence. She didn’t want to want him—she wished she could just walk away and reclaim her independence—but that was fading into insignificance in such close proximity.
All she could see were those deep pools of green. That savagely beautiful face. He tugged her towards him. She wanted him so badly that she was trembling with the effort it took not to show it.
‘Lazaro—’
‘Skye—’
They both spoke at the same time and stopped. Time had trickled to a stop. The air was still. Nothing moved and there was no sound. Only an intense need.
Skye couldn’t even recall what they’d just said.
He laced his fingers with hers and a pulse throbbed deep between her legs. He was holding her so lightly she could have resisted. But she didn’t want to. Through the fog of need clouding her brain she felt an urgent desire to expose the man under the civil façade. To somehow restore the balance of power. To punish him.
He shook his head and spoke almost as if to himself. ‘What do you do to me, bruja?’
Skye answered without even thinking. ‘I’m not a witch... I’m just me.’
For a moment neither one moved. And then something snapped. She didn’t know who had moved first, but it didn’t matter because she was in his arms, and his mouth was on hers, and she was twining her arms around his neck, straining to get as close as possible.
Her folder fell to the floor unnoticed.
He was kissing her like a man possessed. Thoroughly. Expertly. And Skye was kissing him back with all the pent-up frustration and anger of the last two weeks.
She felt feral. She wanted to rip Lazaro’s suit off and find the man who had awoken her with such devastating skill.
When he broke off the kiss to take her hand she said nothing. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to speak anyway. Her heart was hammering out of her chest, her vision was blurry, legs wobbly.
He led her down the stairs to his bedroom. He pushed the door open and brought her into the cool interior. Open French doors led out to a balcony that Skye guessed must look out over the back of the property, taking in the vista of gently rolling hills covered with vines.
She’d had two weeks to contemplate that view, every evening as the sun set over the horizon, turning everything golden and orange. Her anger returned—fuelled by her desire.
Lazaro pulled her towards him and put his hands on her waist, which was already a little thicker than it had been a couple of weeks ago. She might have felt self-conscious, but the intensity in his eyes burnt it away. It sent a rush of renewed desire through Skye’s body and between her legs, where she felt achy and hot.
He asked, ‘Are you sure you want this?’
Skye wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but she was sure of this. She wanted Lazaro with a ferocity that might have scared her if she’d been feeling more rational. She wanted to drive him to the edge of his control...see him lose it.
She didn’t nod, or say a word. She just answered by putting her hands underneath Lazaro’s jacket and pushing it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft thud.
He responded with a sexy tilt to his lips. It made Skye want to scowl but she was too hungry.
He caught her face in his hands and angled her up to him, before covering her mouth with his and throwing them both over the edge of the simmering tension between them and into the fire.
Skye was vaguely aware of Lazaro lifting her arms so he could pull her flimsy top up and off. Then his hands were on her back, smoothing up and down, tracing the contours of her body, undoing her bra. Her breasts were freed and she sucked in a breath when his mouth closed over a tight, sensitive peak.
She speared her hands in his hair, holding him there as he administered the same exquisite torture to her other breast. Everything was so heightened she felt she might blow there and then, but he pulled back and Skye opened her eyes, unable to focus for a moment.
His waistcoat and shirt were still closed. His tie perfect. She needed to ruffle that smooth surface. She snapped open buttons and pulled apart his tie, feeling feverish. When his chest was bared she sucked in a breath. He was pure magnificence.
She spread her hands across his chest, dislodging his shirt and waistcoat, pushing them aside and pulling them down his arms. They fell to the floor and now they were both naked from the waist up.
Urgency sizzled in the air. Lazaro reached for Skye’s jeans, pulling down the zip and tugging them over her legs. She stepped out of them and watched with a dry mouth as he undid his belt and opened his own trousers, discarding them and his underwear with brutal efficiency.
Skye drank in his naked form. All six foot plus of perfectly honed male. Even though he should look vulnerable, being naked, she saw nothing but pride and strength.
Her gaze dropped to where his erection was thick and hard. A bead of moisture dewed the head. He took himself in his hand, moving it up and down slowly. Skye had never seen anything so erotic in her life.
‘Lie on the bed,’ Lazaro instructed.
Skye wasn’t even sure how her legs were still working. It was a relief to do his bidding. Lazaro’s green eyes blazed with heat as he looked at her body, all the while his hand moving up and down that proud column of flesh.
She was overcome with the desire to do something for the first time in her life but was far too shy. She wanted to know how he would taste in her mouth...on her tongue.
Oblivious to her fevered imaginings, Lazaro came onto the bed and moved between her legs. He dispensed with her underwear the same way he had his own—efficiently. She was panting, almost begging, as he looked down at her. And then, gently, he pushed her legs apart. She felt nothing but intense desire as she watched him lower his head to press kisses along the insides of her thighs, before coming closer and closer to where the very core of her pulsated with pleasure/pain.
When his mouth touched her there, his tongue flicking out to explore her slick folds, she almost bucked off the bed. He put his hand on her belly, holding her still, and his other hand under her buttocks, angling her so that his tongue and mouth could push her right over the edge of the cliff she was clinging to, shattering her into a million tiny shards of pleasure so exquisite she was barely aware of him seating himself between her legs.
He entered her in one smooth thrust on the last ebbing wave of her orgasm. Skye had no time to recover, but she found she was already greedy for more pleasure, clutching his buttocks, winding her legs around his waist. She could feel her inner muscles clamp around him, as if loath to let him go ever again, as his powerful body surged in and out in a timeless rhythm.
This was more than she remembered, if possible. Maybe it was just pregnancy hormones heightening every sensation, but Skye didn’t think so. It was Lazaro, uniquely. And his effect on her.
* * *
He drove deep and hard into the snug embrace of her body, but even as he did so any illusion of taking back control was fast unravelling. Her breasts rubbed against his chest and she clasped desperately at his buttocks. He lifted her thigh, holding it over his hip, and he could see how she bit her lip and entreated him with her eyes to have mercy...to let her fly.
Only when he saw that she was as crazed as he felt did he push her over the edge and let his own pleasure rush through him in hot waves so powerful he couldn’t hold on to any semblance of control any more.
He was undone.
When Lazaro woke it was late afternoon. Skye was draped over his body, much as she had been in Dublin. And once again—disconcertingly—it didn’t make him feel claustrophobic.
At that unwelcome revelation he extricated himself from her embrace. She made a sound but then turned on her side away from him, not waking. Lazaro stood up and looked down at her body, his eyes roving over the dips and curves, wondering what it was about her that got to him so uniquely and turned him into some kind of primal animal he didn’t recognise.
It was only small comfort to know that Skye had been similarly affected.
He’d never had a lover like her before. He’d never known a woman to give herself so fully and passionately. Most lovers he’d had had been obsessed with making sure their body was angled a certain way, never fully letting go.
When he’d seen Skye in that room earlier, a moment before she’d noticed him, she’d been standing sideways, her profile illuminated by the sun. In particular he had seen that small rounded belly. For the first time since she’d told him she was pregnant he’d felt the reality of it punch him in the gut. It had made him dizzy for a moment.