His Pregnant Christmas Princess

From runaway bride…

To pregnant princess!

When Princess Ana runs out on her wedding, she needs a place to hide—fast! Family friend and sexy security tycoon Rhys North’s Italian hideaway proves the perfect place to escape scandal. Until she has one unforgettable night in the arms of the brooding ex-soldier… When Ana’s duty calls, they must go their separate ways, but as Christmas approaches, Ana realizes she’s carrying an unexpected gift…Rhys’s baby!

RITA® award-winning author LEAH ASHTON lives in Perth, Western Australia, and writes happy-ever-afters for heroines who definitely don’t need saving. She has a gorgeous husband, two amazing daughters, and the best intentions to plan meals and maintain an effortlessly tidy home. When she’s not writing Leah loves all-day breakfast, rambling conversations and laughing until she cries. She really hates cucumber. And scary movies. You can visit Leah at leah-ashton.com or facebook.com/leahashtonauthor.

Also by Leah Ashton

Secrets and Speed Dating

A Girl Less Ordinary

Why Resist a Rebel?

Nine-Month Countdown

The Billionaire from Her Past

Behind the Billionaire’s Guarded Heart

The Prince’s Fake Fiancée

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

His Pregnant Christmas Princess

Leah Ashton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07848-1

HIS PREGNANT CHRISTMAS PRINCESS

© 2018 Leah Ashton

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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For Linley.

A wonderful friend, and a wonderful writer.

(Also, for Gidget. Just because.)

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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.

‘Your father is dead,’ her mother corrected.

She still gripped the crumpled letter in her fist. Ana was sure it was also a letter from the Prince, just as she’d received. From her father.

‘And you,’ her mother continued, ‘are now a princess. Princess Ana of Vela Ada.’

Princess Ana of Vela Ada.

Ana turned away from her mother, away from the library, and stared out into the darkness. She was at just the right angle to see the Christmas tree at the end of the street.

And as her tears fell, all the coloured lights and the perfect white star at the top blurred together.

Castelrotto, Italy

Rhys North’s phone vibrated loudly, stirring him from his sleep.

He blinked at the time glowing green on the small digital clock on his bedside table: two a.m.

Adrenalin flooded his body. You didn’t receive good news in the middle of the night. Rhys knew this incontrovertibly. You don’t forget being shaken awake, or being told terrible news that made no sense, that didn’t seem possible.

He hadn’t forgotten the words that had changed his life, delivered just before three a.m. in a desert army camp: ‘I’m so sorry, mate. There was nothing anyone could do.’

But, he realised, his phone wasn’t ringing any more. The vibration had stopped almost as soon as it started.

He reached out, flipping his phone over to look at its glowing face.

The tension in his shoulders eased.

His mum had sent him a message.

Merry Christmas, darling!! Hope you have a wonderful day. We all wish you were here! xx

She had, once again, forgotten the significant time difference between his home in Northern Italy and hers in Australia.

The phone vibrated again. Another message.

Oh, crap, I forgot the time again, darling! So sorry to wake you! Love you to the moon! xx

His mum wouldn’t even have considered he’d slept through the first message, given she knew he’d become the lightest of sleepers in the four years since…

Rhys swung his legs over the edge of his bed and ran his hands through thick dark blond hair that was no longer buzz-cut-short. He was awake now, and he knew he wouldn’t fall asleep again easily without doing something physical to take the edge off. He kept both his treadmill and the wind trainer for his bike set up in the living room of his villa. During the day, the floor-to-ceiling windows that covered two entire walls of the large room offered him views of the surrounding mountains, the Dolomites, but now all he could see was darkness.

Rhys never bothered closing his curtains—he wouldn’t be much of a CEO of a security surveillance company if he allowed anyone close enough to look in without his permission.

On his treadmill, he barely warmed up before hitting the steepest incline setting and running as hard as he could, his bare feet slapping loudly in the silence. He ran until it hurt, and then ran some more, until finally he staggered off the machine, bare chest heaving, sweat drenching his skin.

Then he got into a cold shower and into bed, his skin still hot from such exertion.

He looked at his mum’s message again:

Merry Christmas, darling!! Hope you have a wonderful day.

He didn’t respond. He knew his mother wouldn’t expect him to.

Because he never did. Yet still, like clockwork, his mother called, sent messages, even sometimes posted letters.

As if one day he’d turn back into the son he once was. The man he once was…

Before.

Before the night he’d been shaken awake.

Before the panic attacks.

Before he became practically a recluse here amongst the mountains.

Merry Christmas, darling!! Hope you have a wonderful day.

Well, he wouldn’t have a wonderful day. He’d just have another day.

As it had been in the four years since he’d been shaken awake by his commanding officer, to be told of his young, healthy wife’s sudden death, Christmas was just another day.

CHAPTER ONE

Present day…

ANA TOMASICH, PRINCESS OF VELA ADA, was gripping her wedding bouquet so tightly that her freshly manicured fingernails bit painfully into the skin of her palm.

But that was a good thing. That small sting of pain gave her focus. It silenced everything in her surroundings—her bridesmaids, who giggled at the foot of the stone steps that led into the church, the yells of the paparazzi, who stood behind specially erected barriers, and the constant click of their cameras. The hollow, tinny sounds from a row of flagpoles with flapping ropes and Vela Ada flags, and somewhere in the distance seagulls calling as they circled above the nearby beach.

In fact, the only thing that pain didn’t silence was that soft, terribly polite voice she’d been ignoring for so long. The little voice inside her, standing square in front of her subconscious—the one she’d so determinedly pretended didn’t exist.

Until now.

Now, in this new, perfect silence, that voice was loud.

Loud, and calm and absolutely, irrefutably, certain:

This is a mistake.

The sting in her palm eased. Her fingers, so tight and firm, loosened.

And in the silence—in the only moment Ana could remember feeling in control since she’d discovered she was a princess—she let her bouquet fall to the ground.

She imagined she heard it hit the footpath, but that was impossible.

Because, of course, it wasn’t really silent.

Now she heard the noise. All the noise, and then even more noise, when, rather than retrieving her bouquet—as if dropping it had been an accident—she gave it a gentle kick to dislodge it from her satin-clad toes.

Her bridesmaids—colleagues from her old life at the library—hurried towards her, their faces matching studies of concern.

But she just shook her head, held up her hand—she wanted them to stay put—and turned and got back into the vintage Daimler she’d only just exited, slamming the door behind her.

Her driver—one of the palace drivers—caught her gaze in the rear-vision mirror.

His gaze ever professional, he simply asked a question: ‘Where to?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Not here. Anywhere but here.’

She swallowed as the gravity of what she’d just done began to descend upon her shoulders.

Yet she had no doubts.

This was the right decision.

‘Fast,’ she added.

And with a satisfying screech of tyres her driver complied.

* * *

Hours later, the Vela Ada royal family’s private jet landed at a small airport somewhere in Northern Italy. Ana didn’t know exactly where, and she really didn’t care. It was an irrelevant detail: being somewhere far from home was her number one priority.

Far from home, very far from the media and far from Petar.

Petar.

She could just imagine his fury once he’d realised he’d been left at the altar…

Actually, come to think of it, she couldn’t.

As she was hastily rushed through passport checks and customs, far from where all the non-dignitaries had to queue, she digested the realisation that she actually couldn’t say if Petar was the type of guy to shout and yell, or to be totally stoic, to try to cover for her, or blame her. She had no idea at all.

He certainly wouldn’t have expected Ana to be a runaway bride. To be fair, Ana hadn’t expected it either.

But she would have expected the man she was going to marry to notice she’d not been quite herself as the wedding had approached. She hadn’t said anything, but surely Petar should have known. Surely he should have noticed she was saying the right things but deep down inside didn’t really believe any of it. Shouldn’t the person who loved you notice when things weren’t right, even if you hadn’t entirely realised it yourself?

Well, Ana had no actual personal experience to base that on, but she had a pretty good idea that was what love was about. She’d seen proper love before: in her grandparents, her friends. In the movies, even. And she and Petar did not have it. She’d been an idiot to tell herself otherwise.

So here she was.

She hadn’t really travelled much since Prince Goran had died. She’d initially felt rather fraudulent travelling as an international dignitary. She had, after all, spent twenty-nine years as a commoner, and certainly not a wealthy one. She was normal, and more used to budget airlines and cheap rentals than private jets, a security detail and VIP treatment.

But she was grateful for it now. Thanks to hastily managed diplomatic discussions, no one knew she was even in Italy, beyond trusted palace staff and select members of the Italian government. No one would be able to find her here. Not Petar. Not the media.

She was in a car now, white and nondescript. A member of her palace security detail was driving; another sat in the passenger seat. That was it—just the two.

She’d never had a full entourage of security personnel, unlike King Lukas and Queen Petra, or Lukas’s brother, Prince Marko, and Marko’s new wife, Jasmine. Not that Ana minded. She was absolutely comfortable with her status as a second-tier royal—the status she would’ve held even if Prince Goran had acknowledged her at birth. Partly because she was only the child of the late King Josip’s brother, but also because Prince Goran had never really had a high profile in Vela Ada.

Was it because after his brother, King Josip, had his two children—Lukas and Marko—he’d felt the sting of being devalued to a very unlikely heir to the throne, after being the ‘spare’ for much of his life? Or maybe he’d been grateful not to be in the public eye? Ana had no idea. Her mother had never spoken about the type of man Goran had been—Ana suspected because her mother believed if you had nothing nice to say, you said nothing at all.

‘You feeling okay, Your Highness?’

Ana met her driver’s gaze in the rear-vision mirror and nodded. When his gaze swung back to the road, Ana’s lingered on the mirror, and she realised the wedding make-up she still wore was smudged. She rubbed under her eyes in a half-hearted attempt to fix her appearance. But really it was a wasted effort. She was out of her wedding dress, at least, but she still wore her fancy bridal underwear beneath her jumper, coat and jeans. Her hair was still in an elaborate low bun too, although she’d tugged out the diamond-encrusted combs, causing loose strands of hair to hang haphazardly.

Anyway, did it really matter if she looked terrible? She’d just jilted her fiancé—she probably deserved to.

For the first time since she’d dropped her bouquet, she felt tears prickle. Annoyed, Ana moved her attention to the view outside the car.

All she could see was darkness. It was late November, and the sun had long set. Wherever they were, there were minimal street lights, and the sliver of a moon gave little away.

‘Your Highness?’

This time it was the guard in the passenger seat. He was looking at her left hand, which she realised she was tapping loudly against the door handle. Did he think she was going to throw herself out of the moving car or something?

The idea made her grin, but her guard’s hand moved to his seat belt, as if he was planning to throw himself across the luxury sedan to save her. She stilled her hand.

‘Oprosti. I’m fine—really. Just a bit restless.’

He nodded but looked unconvinced.

Ana closed her eyes, resting her head against the window. She still felt the guard’s eyes on her. He was worrying about her.

As if she deserved someone whose entire job was to worry about her. Her. Ana Tomasich. Absolutely normal, no more interesting than anyone else, Ana Tomasich. She was a librarian, for crying out loud.