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Kidnapped For His Royal Heir / The Italian's Pregnant Cinderella
About the Authors
MAYA BLAKE’s hopes of becoming a writer were born when she picked up her first romance at thirteen. Little did she know her dream would come true! Does she still pinch herself every now and then to make sure it’s not a dream? Yes, she does! Feel free to pinch her, too, via Twitter, Facebook or Goodreads! Happy reading!
USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–nominated author CAITLIN CREWS loves writing romance. She teaches her favourite romance novels in creative writing classes at places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Programme, where she finally gets to utilise the MA and PhD in English Literature she received from the University of York in England. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, with her very own hero and too many pets. Visit her at caitlincrews.com.
Also by Maya Blake
The Boss’s Nine-Month Negotiation
Pregnant at Acosta’s Demand
The Sultan Demands His Heir
His Mistress by Blackmail
Crown Prince’s Bought Bride
An Heir for the World’s Richest Man
Bound by the Desert King collection
Sheikh’s Pregnant Cinderella
Rival Brothers miniseries
A Deal with Alejandro
One Night with Gael
The Notorious Greek Billionaires miniseries
Claiming My Hidden Son
Bound by My Scandalous Pregnancy
Also by Caitlin Crews
My Bought Virgin Wife
Unwrapping the Innocent’s Secret
Secrets of His Forbidden Cinderella
Bound to the Desert King collection
Sheikh’s Secret Love-Child
Stolen Brides collection
The Bride’s Baby of Shame
The Combe Family Scandals miniseries
The Italian’s Twin Consequences
Untamed Billionaire’s Innocent Bride
His Two Royal Secrets
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Kidnapped for His Royal Heir & The Italian’s Pregnant Cinderella
Maya Blake
Caitlin Crews
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-008-90019-9
KIDNAPPED FOR HIS ROYAL HEIR & THE ITALIAN’S PREGNANT CINDERELLA
Kidnapped for His Royal Heir © 2020 Maya Blake The Italian’s Pregnant Cinderella © 2020 Caitlin Crews
Published in Great Britain 2020
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 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.
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Authors
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Kidnapped for His Royal Heir
Back Cover Text
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
The Italian’s Pregnant Cinderella
Back Cover Text
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
About the Publisher
Kidnapped for His Royal Heir
Maya Blake
From royally seduced...
To prisoner in paradise!
Prince Zakary allows himself no weaknesses. His kingdom paid the price of a ruler’s debauchery once before, but never again. The only threat to Zak’s ruthless self-control is his red-hot attraction to untouched heiress Violet! And when she’s transferred to his company, it’s not long before their unstoppable chemistry consumes them both—with lasting consequences!
To secure his legacy, Zak demands Violet meet him at the altar. And when she refuses? This powerful prince will keep Violet a willing captive on his private Caribbean island until she says, “I do!”
CHAPTER ONE
VIOLET BARRINGHALL HELD the thick envelope in her hand, mutiny brimming in her heart. She managed to dredge up a thin smile for the smartly dressed courier before shutting her apartment door.
She knew its sender without peeking inside. Its weighted richness shrieked wealth, and its creamy, seamless perfection stressed its importance. The gold-embossed emblem on the top right-hand corner was distinctive enough without her years-long exposure to the family that bore it with centuries-old pride and unapologetic arrogance.
But more than that she encountered an even purer strain of that pride and arrogance on a daily basis in the form of His Royal Highness Prince Zakary Philippe Montegova—the sender of the envelope in her hand.
It wasn’t a highbrow invitation.
No, this was a summons.
She knew this because she’d been responsible for sending out those invitations for his latest fundraising event herself, in her role as his long-suffering dogsbody for the last twelve weeks.
Three months, and counting, of pure hell. Of relentless commands and impossible expectations of perfection from a man—no, a prince—who demanded the very best of himself and therefore of everyone else around him as well.
As Director of the House of Montegova Trust, a foundation that dealt with everything from managing Montegovan business interests abroad to charity and conservation work all over the world, the trust had gained international acclaim for the small but immensely wealthy Mediterranean kingdom.
Together with his brother, Crown Prince Remi Montegova, and their mother, the Queen, Zak had elevated the status of the kingdom to even greater heights since the untimely death of the King over a decade ago.
Where others would’ve grown content at achieving multi-billionaire status, unquestioning respect and reverence, and rested on their laurels, Zak was even more driven, his terrifying, breakneck work ethic inexhaustible. Heck, every facet of his life was lived in high octane.
Right down to the revolving-door speed of his personal liaisons.
Violet didn’t want to think about that. Right now, she’d give anything to completely erase Zak Montegova from her memory. At least for the next twelve hours.
But she couldn’t.
She’d committed to being at his beck and call. In fact, that clause was specifically stated in her contract with the trust. While she had several reservations about the man himself, she couldn’t forget that her degree in community development and her personal career ambition as a conservationist would be given a huge boost with a stint at the trust on her CV. It was why her deliberations about accepting the secondment offer in New York had been woefully short but immensely painful.
Because, aside from her grimace-inducing personal history with Zak, it directly played into her mother’s blatant and conniving plans.
Despite telling herself that incident was a thing of the past, Violet hadn’t been able to consign it to history. Like a recurring nightmare, it leapt to life and replayed in vivid Technicolor every time she was in Zak’s presence, which these days happened to be several hours of every day.
Three more months. A mere ninety-odd days. What could possibly go wrong?
Like an impossibly perfect spectre, his face loomed in her mind’s eye.
Formidable perfection. Insufferably handsome, with a royal swagger that shouted his awareness of his charisma. The raw prowess she’d heard whispers about long before she’d first encountered him.
Every dismissive word he’d thrown at her that day in her mother’s garden six years ago had been steeped in pure masculine arrogance. He’d carried that entitlement in his thick, broad shoulders and arrogant slant of his head as he’d walked away, secure in the knowledge that his manhood was assured, even worshipped by yet another woman, while he’d cruelly rebuffed the attention he’d garnered.
Violet’s face heated up at the memory. Her hand curled tighter around the envelope, one heartbeat away from crumpling the expensive paper. Slowly, she unclenched her fist, breathed deeply to restore her equilibrium. She wasn’t eighteen any more, hadn’t been for six long, tough years.
She’d had to grow up pretty damned fast shortly after that eye-opening party, thanks to an unexpected heart attack taking her father, and the discovery that the life of luxury they’d led had been lived on the back of a ruthlessly guarded facade of falsehoods, humiliating ingratiation and a blatant and ultimately futile exercise of robbing Peter to pay Paul.
The shocking revelation that the Earl and Countess Barringhall weren’t as esteemed or as wealthy as they’d led the world to believe, that they were in fact destitute to the point of bankruptcy, had become an open, humiliating secret. Even far away at university, Violet had been subjected to snide and cruel gossip, social media playing its part in serialising the true status of her family to the world.
It was why Violet had buried herself in her work at the International Conservation Trust. And when the opportunity came up to work away from Barringhall and her mother’s ever-increasing efforts to marry her off to someone socially advantageous, Violet had grabbed it with both hands and taken the position in Oxford.
But with senior positions in the field going to more experienced colleagues, not conservationists with less than two years’ experience, she’d known it was only prudent to redouble her efforts to accelerate her career path and put herself entirely out of her mother’s orbit.
She’d taken this job despite knowing her mother’s close friendship with the Queen of Montegova would be exploited to the utmost in her bid to marry her daughter off.
Violet had considered telling her mother not to bother because she wouldn’t succeed. Little did her mother know that Zak Montegova couldn’t have made his feelings for Violet any clearer than he had that night six years ago or during the last few weeks she’d been working alongside him.
To Zak, she barely existed.
So she didn’t understand why this envelope had been delivered here, now. After ten hours’ exposure to His Royal High-Handedness today, she’d hoped for a night’s reprieve before being subjected to his disturbing presence again.
Lips pressed together to hold her feelings inside, she slid a finger beneath the flap.
The note was brief. Succinct. Imperious.
My assistant has been taken ill. You will take her place in accompanying me to the Conservation Society fundraiser, which starts in an hour. A chauffeur is at your disposal.
Don’t let me down.
HRHZ
The inherent threat in those four final words had kept her awake for more nights in the past three months than anything else had done in her whole life.
That need for her to be exemplary in all things lest the stain of gossip, that underlying suspicion that she was a freeloader, a leech, because of her parents’ infamous misdeeds, attach itself to her. So far it’d proved an uphill battle, social media and her mother’s relentless pursuit of status playing their part in keeping the gossip mill alive and robust.
But she only needed to withstand this for a while longer, to earn her place in life through hard work and dedication to her chosen career. Prove sceptics like Zakary Montegova wrong. If that included stepping into his assistant’s shoes for one night...
She could gain invaluable experience from other conservationists attending the much-vaunted and anticipated event. So why were thoughts of Zak uppermost in her brain? Why was her heart hammering at the prospect of seeing him again?
She jumped when her phone rang from where it lay on the tiny console table next to the front door. Her Greenwich Village apartment was compact enough to cross in a handful of steps, although she suspected who it was before she reached for the phone. Sure enough, the cynical HRH she’d programmed into the contacts was displayed in green.
‘Hello?’
‘You have received my note, yes?’
She hated it that her fingers shook at the deep, faintly accented tones that blended Italian, French and Spanish in an enthralling mix that made up Montegova’s language and history.
‘Since you informed the courier to hand it over personally, no doubt you’ve been told exactly that. And good evening, to you too. Your Highness.’ She couldn’t stem the snippiness from her voice even as she grew irritated with herself for letting him get under her skin. For this heart-banging-against-ribs effect he so effortlessly commanded from her.
But hadn’t he done that to her since she’d first set eyes on him at twelve? Hadn’t she and her twin sister, Sage, watched him that first time from their bedroom window? Hadn’t Violet, freshly done with reading her favourite fairy tale, instantly placed herself in the Princess’s shoes, with Zakary Montegova in the leading role of Prince Charming, because in that seemingly serendipitous moment when he’d looked up and locked eyes with her, he’d been her every wish come to life? The answer to those desperate, seemingly futile prayers for deliverance from her parents’ endless arguments, the whispers and conversations that suddenly stopped when she and her sisters walked into the room, and their mother’s constant badgering about making strategic friendships?
She’d hated herself for that weak moment later, of course. Because books were books. Nothing in real life could mislead her into thinking she needed a boy...or man...to save her. That the answer to her self-worth lay in a prince whose gaze turned cool and dismissive as he stared at her from across the top of his perfectly polished sports car.
His Perfect Highness didn’t immediately respond to her snippiness now, and that drawn-out extra second tightened Violet’s already strung-out nerves. He’d always had a knack for making her feel self-conscious, even awkward once upon a time.
But only if you give him that power.
Where she would’ve rushed into further speech at twelve or eighteen, Violet forced herself to hold her tongue now. To wait him out. As if her heart wasn’t banging harder just from the sound of his voice. As if her palms weren’t growing clammy, reminding her how she’d ruffled him, for a very brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instant, six years ago.
It was infuriating that her brain refused to let go of that moment, the scent and, sweet heaven, the taste of him still lingering, vivid and real and affecting, after all this time.
‘Personal dealings with couriers are outside my remit, so you’ll have to excuse my ignorance,’ Prince Zakary drawled, dragging her attention back to the present. Back to his exclusive importance. To the reminder that he dealt with heads of state and Fortune 500 CEOs, not the common working class. ‘But I’m pleased to note the urgency of the situation was relayed. I trust you’re ready?’
‘No, I’m not. I received the note five minutes ago. I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to wear yet.’
‘Think fast, then, Violet. I’ll be at your apartment in twenty minutes.’
‘What? You said I had an hour before your chauffeur fetched me.’
‘There’s been a change of plan, which necessitated this call. My foreign minister wishes to meet with me before the fundraiser starts.’
‘And what does that have to do with me?’
Again, he paused for an extra beat. ‘Since you’re acting as my assistant, your presence is also required at the meeting. Unless you feel you’re not up to the task...?’
That barely veiled insinuation stung.
‘Not that long ago I spent three weeks under an intense sun, with very little sleep, cleaning and tagging hundreds of birds after an oil tanker spilled its contents on the other side of the world, Your Highness. I’m sure I’m up to taking notes at a meeting. Unless you’ll be conducting it in something other than one of the five languages I speak fluently?’ That need to prove her worth to him, to ram her few but much prideful accomplishments down his throat, grated for a moment before she owned it.
She’d learned to her cost that timid didn’t work with Zak.
Anything other than toe-to-toe combat was just asking to be eaten alive and spat aside with singeing indifference. He responded to challenges, usually attempted by misguided fools who dared to say no to him. But occasionally it didn’t hurt to remind the man that simply because that word didn’t exist in his vocabulary, it didn’t mean she intended to gushingly enquire how high when he said jump.
‘I’m well aware of the contents of your résumé, Lady Barringhall. You don’t need to recite it to me, especially not when time is of the essence.’
‘Of course not. Your Highness. Just as I won’t remind you that you’re the one who called me. That you’re the one wasting time by keeping me on the phone when I could be getting dressed.’
‘Ah.’ His voice was a cool, deep exhalation. ‘I imagined you were an expert at multi-tasking. Since I don’t recall that listed as one of your accomplishments, I’ll have to make my own judgement on that score. You now have fifteen minutes, Lady Barringhall.’
The line went dead, and Violet couldn’t stop the uncouth word that erupted from her lips. That little catharsis freed a layer of tension and propelled her to her tiny bedroom, where she rummaged through her meagre wardrobe in search of the gown she hadn’t worn since her twenty-first.
Recalling how different that birthday had been from her eighteenth, she pursed her lips. A three-hundred-plus guest list shrunk to a half-hearted twenty-five, so-called friends having fallen away like rats deserting a sinking ship, some exhibiting shocking cruelty on their way out that still hurt to this day.
Violet had endured the occasion only because her mother had insisted on marking the day, spending money they hadn’t had for a birthday party no one had wanted to attend, wearing a dress she suspected had come from a charity shop, not the haute couture line her mother had insisted it’d come from.
Whatever the genesis of the dress, Violet couldn’t fault its simple but tasteful lines. The dove-grey pleated bodice swept from a shallow V over her cleavage to wrap around her upper arms and back, leaving her shoulders and lower back bare, before the soft chiffon gently moulded her hips and fell away to her ankles.
Since she’d already showered in anticipation of slipping into her pyjamas for an early night, her only task was to slip on the dress, brush and sweep her hair into a tidy chignon, add a simple string of pearls inherited from her grandmother, shoes and make-up, and spritz on her favourite perfume.
Her doorbell went for the second time within half an hour as she was tossing her keys into her small, matching clutch. Her heart attempted to jump into her throat, until she assured herself that royalty didn’t conduct such mundane tasks as climbing four flights of dark, dank stairs to knock on the front doors of apartments in buildings within a short sprint of a housing project.
She went to the door, opened it and froze, her jaw sagging at the sight of the man framed in her doorway.
‘Do you normally throw open your door with very little regard for your safety?’ Prince Zakary Montegova asked coldly.
Violet stared, convinced that the combination of memories, exhaustion and his earlier phone call had colluded into make her hallucinate him. But, no, that steady breathing, those much too incisive grey eyes, that towering, mouthwatering body and especially that aftershave convinced her he was all too real.
‘I... What are you doing here?’
One sleek, winged eyebrow rose, sarcasm dripping from that small motion.
‘I meant you didn’t have to come up and get me yourself. You could’ve called. Or sent one of your bodyguards.’ She managed to drag her gaze from him long enough to confirm the security guards without whom he never travelled were indeed present, watchful and crowding her poorly lit hallway.
‘And missed this scintillating peek into your life? One that makes me question why you have a peephole and an adequate-looking security chain on your door but chose to use neither?’
That tight bite of irritation had thickened, even as his gaze swept over her from hair to heels, dragging awareness over every inch of skin he scrutinised, all the parts he couldn’t see.
It was that bite, that suppressed energy that intensified her awareness, dragged even more unnervingly arresting pieces of Zak Montegova into focus.
