The Prince's Pregnant Mistress. Maisey Yates

building behind them.

      This had to be a dream. All of it. When she woke up in the morning, her head would be clearer. She would be single, alone and pregnant. Her ex-boyfriend would be nothing more than that jerk pharmaceutical rep from Italy who had left her in the lurch. He would absolutely not be the prince of some obscure country, and she would not be a future princess.

      The alternative was unthinkable.

      * * *

      When they disembarked in Santa Firenze, Raphael had them pull the car right up to the plane. He was feeling more than slightly concerned for Bailey’s health. Or, at the very least, the health of their unborn baby.

      She had been especially pale ever since he had first seen her in her apartment, and she had gotten only more waxen as the trip had worn on. Though he had only seen her once after she had gone to the bedroom to sleep, and that was only to use the restroom about a half hour before they landed.

      He was confused by her. By their every interaction. She was not grateful for the offer of marriage. Not especially pleased that he was giving her the chance to be a princess. His wife. A position of great honor. One that most women would fight over.

      And yet the two who’d had it offered to them both seemed to have rejected it.

      Allegra was a separate issue.

      “The car is waiting,” he said through the closed bathroom door.

      Bailey emerged a moment later, wet-haired, gritty-eyed and cranky, wearing a university sweatshirt and a pair of stretch pants.

      “I see you availed yourself of the shower,” he said.

      “How often do you get a shower at thirty thousand feet? I thought that if I didn’t at least give it a try, I would be seriously failing in the luxury stakes.”

      “Well, you will have ample opportunity to use the facilities again. Even if I upgrade jets, it will still have a shower.”

      “You’re assuming that I will be making use of your jet in the future.”

      “Of course, you’re marrying me. Pretending otherwise is ridiculous.” He grabbed hold of her elbow, leading her from the plane, carefully helping her down the steps. “Now, come get in the car.”

      She sputtered, “Just because you say nothing else makes sense does not mean that nothing else makes sense.”

      He opened the door to the car, gesturing for her to get in. She shot him a deadly glare, then complied. He got in beside her, slamming the door shut. “You seem to be misunderstanding,” he said, feeling very much like he was speaking a different language. Because Bailey seemed to persist in misunderstanding him. “I am the ruler of Santa Firenze. No one in my family has produced an illegitimate child. Not one. No one in my family has ever been divorced. We are a hallowed and storied lineage. I am offering you a chance to become part of it. The fact that you have rejected me is outrageous on so many levels I cannot even begin to list them all.”

      “By all means,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “List them. If you have time.”

      “It isn’t that long of a drive to the castle.”

      She blinked. “Castle?”

      “What part of prince are you having trouble comprehending? I speak very good English, though Italian is my first language. You, however, are making me question my linguistic skills.”

      “I would hate to be the cause of you questioning your linguistics. I’m sure that they’re fantastic.”

      “They can’t be overly fantastic, because you do not seem to understand anything of what I am telling you.” There was no point arguing.

      She would understand the moment his family home came into view. It was the jewel of Santa Firenze. Settled in the middle of the Alps, overlooking one of the deepest and bluest lakes in Europe, craggy peaks rising up around it. She would understand then. What he was offering. Understand what a gift he was presenting her with.

      As the car made its way down the narrow, winding two-lane road, Bailey insisted on shifting constantly in her seat and letting out long, huffy sighs.

      “Your distress is noted,” he said.

      “Not overly. You keep accusing me of not understanding, and yet I think you’re the one who has not fully taken on board that I am not happy about this.”

      “I am offering you marriage. Legitimacy for your child, an end to your financial concerns.”

      “About that,” she snapped. “Where was your offer to end my financial concerns when I was working double shifts at that horrible restaurant? As I was killing myself to get through college, and you were presenting yourself as a businessman there on your company’s dime?”

      “Would you have accepted my offer of financial assistance?”

      Her face went blank then, her mouth settling into a stubborn line. “Yes,” she said.

      “You’re a terrible liar. You would not have accepted. Not from Raphael the businessman. And you seem to like Raphael the prince a lot less.”

      “That’s because the first time I met Raphael the prince was when he was breaking up with me at midnight after what I had thought was a very romantic date. Only then you threw me out into the snow.”

      “I wanted a clean break. I felt it was better for both of us.”

      “Don’t try to convince me that you lost any sleep over any of that.”

      He had. She had no idea. He had lost countless hours of sleep, lying there hard and aching, wanting something that only she could give to him. She had cast a spell over him from the moment he had first seen her, and he had never been able to explain it. He only knew that she affected him in a way no other woman ever had. And it had nothing to do with skill.

      He could remember the first time she had knelt down before him and taken him into her mouth. The way that she had tasted him, with shy, timid strokes of her tongue, how she had taken him in as deep as she could, her every movement uncertain. It was not her skill that enticed, but her sincerity. Her intense dedication to him. He was a man who had always felt a certain level of worship was his due, but it meant so much more coming from such a willing supplicant, rather than a trained one.

      So yes, he had lost sleep. He’d had no desire to touch another woman, and, in fact, that had worked to his advantage, since he had purposed that he would not until his wedding night with Allegra. In that time he had attempted to drum up some kind of enthusiasm for the woman he was engaged to. But he had found none. Allegra was beautiful, with golden skin and dark, shimmering curls.

      But he had craved the pale, flaxen-haired beauty of Bailey.

      It was all vaguely ridiculous. He was fantasizing about a university student named Bailey. Princess Bailey.

      But that was the thing with honor. It was supposed to matter even if it was hard. A truly strong oak didn’t bend in the wind, and neither could the ruler of Santa Firenze.

      As a boy, when he’d hurt himself, his father had not allowed his mother or the servants to comfort him. It had been up to him to breathe through the pain and carry on. That, his father had told him once, was how a man learned to soldier on in all things. If you could do it with a cut, you would do it with an emotional wound, too.

      When he was older, his father had told him it applied to other physical aches, as well. A man might want a certain woman, might burn for her, but if there was potential a dalliance would harm the country, that craving—like all other harmful desires—had to be cast aside.

      The prince of Santa Firenze could have whatever his heart desired. And that was why his heart, soul and sense of honor had to be made strong.

      Raphael knew that he was strong. Had been, utterly and completely all his life.

      Until her.

      It was truly ridiculous. But here they