His Shotgun Proposal. Karen Toller Whittenburg

I am.”

      She blinked, then adjusted her glasses with a jab of her finger. “You mean you really do have a twin? For real?”

      “Don’t play games. You probably know more about me and my family than I do.”

      “I don’t see how you can say that. Until I saw you outside the airport, I didn’t even know your name.”

      He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “The more lies you tell, the more apt you are to get caught in them,” he admonished. “You and Jessica became friends during grad school. Don’t try to tell me you never talked about your families.”

      “I suppose someone of your kind would find it impossible to believe you weren’t the main topic of conversation every day of the week, every hour of the day, but believe me, stranger things have happened.”

      “Yes, like you showing up here.”

      “I’m here because Jessica was kind enough to invite me. As I said before, if I’d known you were one of her cousins, this is the last place I’d have chosen as a refuge.”

      “Refuge? Now, that’s an interesting turn of phrase.”

      She pressed her lips together and stared stonily out the windshield. “Look, Mac—it is all right if I call you Mac, isn’t it?”

      “I usually require women to call me Sheikh Makin Bin Habib El Jeved, or Prince, but since you asked so nicely, I’ll make an exception for you and allow you to call me Your Royal Highness.” He slowed in response to the traffic and looked over at her. “I’m guessing my connection to the royal family of Sorajhee doesn’t come as a surprise to you.”

      Her blue eyes took on something of a glaze at that. “Oh, no. I’m not surprised at all. I was sort of hoping for Prince William—he’s young, but so handsome, you know—but what kind of commoner am I to complain? I mean, any royal blood is better than none, right?”

      She was making fun of him, the little witch. There was a hint of a dimple winking at him from her cheek, the dance of devilment in her eyes. She was laughing, and his stupid heart urged him to laugh with her! But he would not give her the satisfaction. He would never humble himself in that way. “I’m glad you find it so amusing,” he said stiffly. “You may not find it so in the days to come.”

      “Day,” she corrected quickly. “I’m not staying any longer than it takes to convince Jessica I’ll be okay somewhere else.”

      “Some other place of refuge?”

      “I didn’t mean to say that. Refuge sounds…well, not the way it really is.”

      “So how is it, Abigail Jones? Did you get into trouble and this looked like an easy way out? Or was this your plan all along?”

      The laughter went out of her expression as quickly as a room goes from light to dark with the flick of a switch. “My plan was to take my graduate degree and teach. My plan was to be on my own and independent. My plan was to stay out of trouble altogether. I didn’t plan to get pregnant, I didn’t plan on ever seeing you again, and I sure as shootin’ didn’t plan to answer stupid questions about looking for the easy way out!”

      Mac thought she sounded genuinely upset. Angry, too. He had to admit she was a consummate little actress. “Let’s be honest, Abbie. We had one night together. One. We weren’t careless. We used protection. You’ll forgive me if I refuse to believe I’m the father of your child.”

      She was furious. It showed in every nuance, in every movement, in the white-hot gaze that scorched him in its outrage. “And you’ll forgive me if I believe you’re a jackass.”

      “There’s no need to resort to name-calling.”

      “No, much better to stick to your civilized way of calling me not only a liar, but a wh—”

      “I did not say that.”

      “But you did imply it.” She twisted irritably on the seat. “Well, I don’t care what you believe, Mr. Sheikh El Highness, but for your information, I don’t sleep around, using protection is no guarantee against pregnancy, and this is your baby. Much to my regret. Now, please, don’t talk to me anymore. No,” she snapped when he opened his mouth. “Don’t say another word. I’m dangerously hormonal and I might start screaming. I might dial 911 on my cell phone and accuse you of kidnapping. Or worse. I might take out a pair of needles and start knitting little booties. Believe me, you’ll be doing us both a favor if you keep quiet from here on in and just concentrate on driving.”

      Mac thought maybe—this time, anyway—she had a valid point.