Protecting the Pregnant Princess. Lisa Childs

SHE W AS STILL HERE.

      Aaron’s breath shuddered out with a sigh of relief. He had worried that they might have moved her already, that they probably had just minutes after he’d been discovered in her room. But then maybe they didn’t realize those last shots—fired at him in the parking lot—had also missed him.

      As he studied her, his relief ebbed away, and his concern returned. She lay, her body stiff and unmoving beneath her blankets. Maybe when they hadn’t managed to get rid of him, they’d decided to get rid of her instead. Was she dead? Or just playing dead like she had the first time he had come into her room?

      He moved toward the bed, hoping that she would reach out to strangle him as she had last time. She wasn’t strong enough to hurt him but it proved she was still strong enough to fight.

      He opened his mouth to whisper her name but had no idea what to call her. Was she Charlotte or Princess Gabriella? He wished he knew. Since he wished she was the woman he had already begun to fall for, he called her, “Charlotte…”

      Her eyes opened wide with shock, but probably at the sound of his voice rather than any recognition of her name because she said, “I thought you were dead.”

      “So did I,” Aaron admitted.

      If the Marshal hadn’t shown up in the parking lot when he had, those shots probably wouldn’t have stopped until Aaron had been hit. And killed. But Marshal Herrema’s car pulling into the lot had sent the shooter into hiding. Aaron suspected he would come out again—just hopefully not until Aaron got her to safety.

      “We have to get out of here,” he said, reaching for her restraints.

      But she already had one arm free and quickly freed her other arm. “I thought you were shot,” she said. “I was sure I heard gunshots.”

      “You did,” he confirmed.

      “The guard with the Glock?” She swung her legs over the bed but hesitated to stand.

      “Yes.” She knew guns. She had to be Charlotte, or had Charlotte taught Princess Gabriella to identify firearms? “He caught me coming out of your room.”

      She glanced toward the door, her caramel-colored eyes widening with fear. “After catching you, I’m surprised he would leave my side for a second—even for his nicotine fix.”

      Her fear made him think she was the princess. Because he’d never seen fear on Charlotte’s face. Passion. Anger. But the fear had been Gabriella’s.

      “I came up with a distraction to get him away.” Trigger, in a short dark-haired wig that made him, from a distance, look like Aaron. “But we don’t have much time.” Before the guard either gave up trying to catch Trigger or caught him and figured out he wasn’t Aaron.

      She gestured at her hospital gown. “I won’t be able to just walk out of here dressed like this, and I don’t think I have anything else to wear. There’s no bureau or closet in here.”

      He’d noticed that the first time he had broken into the room. There had been no sign of her belongings—nothing to provide a clue to her identity or a wardrobe for her departure. So he had come prepared. He handed her the wad of clothes he’d had clenched under his arm. She unfolded the drab green shirt and pants. He’d stolen the scrubs from the employee locker room. He reached for her arm to guide her from the bed, so that she could change.

      She stood but swayed on her bare feet.

      Aaron grabbed her. “Are you all right?”

      The blow to her head had obviously stolen more than her memory. Would he be able to get her out without assistance? Maybe he should have brought along a wheelchair.

      She drew in a deep breath and, using his arm, steadied herself. “I’m fine.”

      “Do you need help getting out of the gown?” he asked. And images flashed through his mind of another time he’d undressed her…

      “No. I can manage myself.” She hadn’t lost her stubborn independence. She had to be Charlotte.

      “Turn around,” she ordered him, her modesty misplaced. If she was Charlotte, he had already seen every inch of her naked. He had already caressed and kissed every inch of her naked skin.

      But he obliged her and turned back toward the door and kept watch through the small window to the hall. For a big building—three stories of brick and mortar—the place was surprisingly quiet and nearly deserted. Where were all the other patients and visitors? Locked up and locked out?

      “Actually I can’t manage,” she corrected herself. “These damn ties are knotted in the back. Can you undo them?”

      He drew in a deep breath to steady his suddenly racing pulse, and then he turned to face her again. She stood with her back toward him, her long hair pulled over her shoulder so it would be out of the way. She had already pulled on the pants and stepped into the slipon shoes. Her arm over her shoulder, she contorted as she tugged on the straps binding her inside the hospital gown.

      “You’re making it worse,” he observed and gently pulled away her fingers. Forcing his fingers to remain steady, he unknotted the ties and parted the rough cotton fabric.

      Baring her back reminded him of lowering the zipper on another kind of gown—one of whisper-soft silk that had slid down her body like a caress—leaving her bare but for a tiny scrap of lace riding low on her hips. She wore no bra now, either. Maybe she thought turning away from him protected her modesty. But he could see the side of her full breast and the nipple puckered with cold. But the rounded mound of her belly drew his attention from the beauty of her breast.

      This was another kind of beauty.

      One that stole away his breath. Was the baby she carried his? That was only possible if she was Charlotte. While he suspected that she was, he wasn’t certain if that was merely wishful thinking on his part rather than fact. Hell, not even she knew for certain who the hell she was—if he could believe her claim of amnesia.

      She tugged the scrubs shirt down over her breasts and burgeoning belly. The cotton stretched taut. He should have found her a bigger size, but he’d grabbed what he could from the first accessible locker. He’d acted quickly then because they didn’t have much time.

      “Are you ready?” he asked, the urgency rushing back over him. Trigger might have already been caught. Time was running out. “Do you have everything?”

      “There’s nothing here,” she said. “We shouldn’t be here, either.” As she turned toward him, she swayed again and clutched at his arm.

      “You’re not fine,” he said, disproving her earlier claim. “You’re weak and dizzy.”

      “I will be fine,” she amended herself. “Once we get out of here. Let’s go.” And then instead of holding on to his arm for support, she was tugging on it to pull him toward the door. “You still have your badge?”

      He shook his head even as he pulled the ID from the lanyard around his neck. “Not mine.”

      This was probably better. Since it belonged to one of the Serenity House security guards, it had access to more areas than Mr. Ottenwess’s badge had.

      “I was fired.”

      “Then how did you get back in?” she asked, her golden-brown eyes narrowing with suspicion.

      He lifted the badge toward the lock. “I grabbed this off the guy throwing me off the premises.” His stomach clenched in protest of the blows it had taken to provide the distraction. He could have fended those off and would have had he not needed that damn badge.

      Her brow furrowed now—with suspicion. “Who are you?”

      He sucked in a breath of disappointment. “You still don’t remember me?”

      “I don’t remember anything before I woke up in this place.” But she looked away from