The Queen's Baby Scandal. Maisey Yates

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       EPILOGUE

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       CHAPTER ONE

      QUEEN ASTRID VON BJORNLAND had never been to a club before. But she was reasonably familiar with the layout of the Ice Palace, nestled in the Italian Alps, hidden away from commoners and social riffraff—as defined by Mauro Bianchi, the billionaire owner of the establishment—in spite of the fact that it was a place she’d never before visited.

      She and Latika had done an intense amount of research on the subject prior to hatching their plan, and image searches of the facility itself had been involved. Though, the findings had been sparse.

      Mauro was intensely protective of the image of the club as exclusive. And the only photographs that existed were photographs that had been officially sanctioned by Mauro himself, and included only the main areas, and none of the VIP locations that the many articles Astrid had read stated were stationed throughout the club.

      Her palms were sweaty, but she knew that the invitation that she held in her hand was good enough.

      Latika had assured her of that. And Latika was never wrong.

      When Astrid had been looking to hire an assistant the year before her father had passed, she’d made discreet inquiries among the circle of dignitaries and royalty she knew, and Latika had appeared the next day. Polished, sleek and just a bit too good to be true.

      It hadn’t taken long for Astrid to realize Latika was hiding something.

       “I had to get away from my father. He’s a very rich man, and looking to consolidate that wealth by marrying me off to a man who is… He’s not a good man. I will need to stay out of the spotlight completely. So all of my work will be done quietly, efficiently and with me out of the picture.”

      That was all Astrid had needed to hear. She knew all about the looming specter of potential arranged marriages and overly controlling fathers.

      And so, she had hired Latika on the spot.

      She was a whiz of an assistant—and had become an even better friend, and ally—and able to conjure up near magic with the snap of her fingers. In this case, magic had included: an excuse for Astrid to go to Italy, a car rented on the sly, an extravagant and extravagantly skimpy designer dress, jewels and shoes, and a near impossible invitation to the party.

      And now Astrid was standing and waiting behind the thick velvet rope, in line, for entry.

      Astrid had never waited in a line before. Not once in her life.

      Astrid had never waited full stop.

      She had been born five minutes before her twin brother, Prince Gunnar, much to the dismay of her father and the entire house of nobility. And that had essentially set the tone for her entire life.

      A tone that had led to this particular plan, as dangerous, unlikely and foolhardy as it was.

      All of those adjectives had belonged to Latika. Who had scolded Astrid the entire time she had aided her in putting the plan together.

      Latika had many opinions, but none of them really mattered. Both in terms of what she would help Astrid accomplish, and in terms of what Astrid would choose to do. She would make happen whatever Astrid asked her to make happen. And that was the simple truth of it.

      Astrid tugged at the hem of her impossibly short white dress. It was daring, and nothing like she would wear in her real life, but that had been part of the plan.

      She could not look like Queen Astrid. If her brother found out, he would come down to the club and physically drag her out. Not to mention if any of the various government officials found out, they would do the same.

      But she was doing what had to be done to wrest control of her kingdom into her own hands. Control of her future.

      She would find other ways if need be, but this plan had come together with so much expert timing that Astrid was willing to chance it for several reasons.

      And, she had been willing to wear a gown that was essentially a suit jacket with nothing beneath it. The neckline gaped, showing curves and angles of her body she normally kept well hidden.

      Her red hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, and she was wearing a single, long emerald on a chain, which swayed perilously between her cleavage and made her feel like she was drawing attention.

      Of course, if she wasn’t drawing attention to her cleavage, then she was calling attention to her legs, with that abbreviated hemline in the sky-high heels. And perhaps her rear, where she knew the white dress clung with a kind of saucy cheekiness. At least, that was what Latika had told her.

      But the final thing that Latika had said to her as she had dropped her in front of the queue for the club was that she absolutely had to be back out at the curb by two in the morning.

      The timing was essential, and if she missed the timing at all, not only could the plan be in jeopardy, but Latika’s job certainly would be. And by extension possibly Latika herself, given that her position at the palace had been insulation for her for the past three years.

      Astrid was the figurehead for her country. And she had power, it was true. But her father’s antiquated board, along with the elected government, had authority and if something was ever put to a vote, whether it be a member of staff or law, then Astrid would be outweighed. It would be thus, she had been assured, even if Gunnar had been made king. Even if he were not born five minutes after his sister.

      Though, Astrid was not convinced of this.

      And she had found a loophole. And that loophole was why she was here.

      It certainly had nothing to do with Mauro Bianchi. Not in the personal sense. She didn’t even know the man, after all. But she knew about him. Everyone did. A self-made billionaire who had risen up from abject poverty thanks to his grit and determination.

      In Astrid’s opinion, had this been the Middle Ages, he would have been a marauding conqueror. And as she was dealing with arcane laws more firmly in the Middle Ages than in the modern era, that had only made him all the more attractive to her as she set about hatching her plan.

      She took a step forward in line as all of the people shuffled upward, and she found herself facing a large, grim-looking bouncer with a pronounced scar running across the length of his face.

      She squared her shoulders, and then, changed tactics. She arched her breasts outward instead, and rather than affecting her typical severe glance, she went with a pout, just as she and Latika had been practicing in her hotel room tonight before they had gone out.

      “Here is my invitation,” she said, somehow feeling like she hadn’t quite gotten down the simper that the other women in the line had thrown out when they had presented their invitations to the bouncer.

      But it didn’t matter. The invitation—while for a person who didn’t exist—was for the person she was playing, and it was legitimate.

      “Of course,” he said, looking her over, something he did in his gaze that Astrid had never had directed at her before. “Enjoy the party, Ms. Steele.”

      He kept the card firmly in his hand,