His Pregnant Christmas Princess. Leah Ashton

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       PROLOGUE

      One year ago

      THE VELA ADA CITY LIBRARY was usually bustling on a Wednesday afternoon. Students would be studying at the small cluster of high-sided carrel desks beyond the rows of bookshelves, or chatting in groups on the brightly coloured sofas. Toddlers would try to sit neatly cross-legged beside babies cradled on parents’ laps, listening in rapt attention to stories or nursery rhymes read by one of the librarians. And, of course, library patrons of every age would dot the aisles, or borrow books at the self-serve kiosks, or come to ask questions at the information desk.

      Ana Tomasich stood at that information desk now, but the library was empty and silent. In her hand she held an opened envelope made of thick, expensive paper, and she turned that envelope over and over in her hands, rubbing her thumb occasionally over the elaborately embossed broken seal.

      Outside, it was already dark on the tiny Mediterranean island, with the sun setting at four p.m. this Christmas Eve. Through the large glass windows at the front of the historic sandstone library building she could see the streets, crisscrossed with Christmas lights stretching between the cast-iron lamp posts that edged the cobblestone streets of Vela Ada’s modest capital city.

      If she stood at a particular angle near the large print section, Ana knew she would also be able to see the huge, towering Christmas tree that stood, magnificent and twinkling, outside City Hall, only a short walk down the street. And from next to the after-hours return chute she’d have a view all the way down to the Vela Ada marina, also decked out in elaborate Christmas lights, with angels and stars glittering above the swell of the Adriatic Sea.

      But for now Ana was perfectly happy to just stand in the quiet of the library, her gaze travelling aimlessly over the paper angels that hung from the ceiling—she’d helped a group of six-year-olds to make them last week—and then to the four Christmas trees of varying heights that she and the other librarians had had great fun decorating, with lights and other arts and crafts creations from the children who visited the library.

      This year she’d had some of the older kids plant pšenica—wheat—in saucers, for the Feast of St Lucia. Tradition stated that the height of the wheat by Christmas directly correlated to the luck and prosperity you would experience the following year. The saucers had all grown tall, bushy wheat—but, although Ana couldn’t really define her emotions right now, she wouldn’t say she was feeling lucky.

      The library had closed early today and would open again in the New Year. All the other library staff had headed home, but Ana had volunteered to lock up, not in a hurry to do last-minute shopping or wrap presents.

      As the only child of an only child, she didn’t exactly have a lot of family to buy gifts for—just her mother and her grandparents, Baba and Dida. She’d been organised enough to buy their presents weeks ago, although she would need to wrap them at some point before Midnight Mass later this evening. But still—she had plenty of time.

      It was lucky, she supposed, that she’d had time to stay back. If she’d left earlier, she would’ve missed the courier who’d knocked so frantically on the door. Not a normal courier, with a van and a uniform, but a courier in a suit, travelling in a jet-black sedan with darkly tinted windows. ‘Courier’ probably wasn’t even the correct word—she suspected he actually had a far more important title, given his employers—but, regardless, he’d been desperate to deliver the letter that now lay before her on the information desk.

      He’d also been very apologetic. He’d suggested he drive her somewhere quiet so they could talk, so she could read and digest what the letter contained. But, honestly, where was more quiet than a library?

      And besides—she’d known. She’d known straight away what the letter meant.

      She just hadn’t expected what was inside it.

      The courier—or maybe he’d said he was a valet?—had offered to stay while she read it, to answer her questions, but she’d shooed him away.

      Now she almost regretted that. She had so many questions.

      But they could wait.

      Right now she just needed to be in the quiet of this library. She needed to get her head around this news. She needed to begin to comprehend what this meant. Would she even be able to work here any more? Still live in her little apartment two blocks away? Did she even get the choice?

      And what was that prickly heaviness in her chest? The moisture in her eyes?

      How could she possibly grieve for a man she’d never met?

      A frantic banging at the library door made Ana jump.

      Her mother stood on the other side of the glass, wrapped in her favourite green winter coat, her gloved hands rattling the door. One hand held an envelope that matched Ana’s.

      ‘Ana!’

      She rushed to let her mother in—it was cold, almost freezing outside.

      The moment the door swung open the shorter woman threw herself into Ana’s arms.

      ‘Finally!’ she said, as the door slammed shut behind her. ‘Finally, my bebo, finally!’

      They both held each other tightly, and when her mother finally stepped away tears had dampened Ana’s white blouse.

      But her mother’s grief made sense. She’d lost the man she’d once loved. Once adored.

      And now…now her mother was getting what she’d always wanted. Acknowledgement from the man Ana knew her mother had never stopped loving. Even as she’d hated him.

      But for Ana? Ana had never really allowed herself to think too much about any of this. She’d just shoved it aside: her father wasn’t part of her life, but her mother was, and she loved her enough for two parents. She hadn’t let her thoughts wander to how he’d never wanted to meet her. Or, worse, how he’d never even acknowledged she existed. How he’d lied and denied that Ana was his daughter.

      Well, she hadn’t let her thoughts wander in that direction often, anyway. It was pointless and uncomfortable.

      Her mother took a few steps away, snatching out a few tissues from the box on the corner of the information desk. She turned and handed them to Ana, and only then did Ana realise she was crying too.

      She swiped at her tears, annoyed with herself for reasons she couldn’t define.

      ‘Prince Goran is dead,’ Ana said in a low voice.