Christmas Baby For The Princess. Barbara Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ she was trying to break free. One of them must have reached in while she wasn’t paying attention...

      Stupid, stupid, stupid. This was what happened when you tried to run away from your problems: you got more. Arianna closed her eyes to keep the tears from burning their way free. A few weeks, a month at most—that was all she’d needed.

      For what had to be the one-hundredth time, she cursed her own foolishness. If she had listened to her instincts, she never would have had to run away in the first place. She wouldn’t have to decide between a loveless marriage and a royal scandal.

      Now, thanks to the pickpocket, she was going to have to make the choice sooner rather than later. Without money, she couldn’t stay in America. She had no money for food, not to mention that the owner of that terrible hotel where she was staying expected her to pay her bill at the end of the week or, as he so sweetly said, he would toss her pretty rear end on the street.

      Her child deserved better.

      Amazing how one tiny pink line could change your life. When she first missed her period, she blamed stress. After all she and Manolo had just broken up. Besides, they had only been together—like that—two times. Two misguided attempts at deepening feelings that weren’t there.

      When the second month came and went, however, she couldn’t blame stress anymore. The world stopped turning the moment she saw that extra pink line. She didn’t know what do to, so she ran. Disappeared, so she could decide which of her no-win choices was the lesser of two evils.

      Just then, a cold November wind blew down the street, the chill swirling around her shins before creeping up her skirt. Nature’s way of reminding her how serious her predicament really was. Tucking her collar about her throat, Arianna lifted her chin with royal stoicism. No sense dragging her feet. With luck, a decision about what to do would come to her while she was on a plane back to Corinthia.

      A few feet ahead, a deliveryman exited one of the businesses, maneuvering his cart over the threshold with a clank loud enough to be heard over Manhattan traffic. The place was called the Fox Club, according to the letters emblazed on the side of the maroon awning. Goodness only knew what kind of club the place was, but no matter. It was open and, hopefully, had a telephone she could borrow.

      Except it wasn’t a club. It was a time portal. How else to describe what lay on the other side of the door?

      The room looked like it belonged in an old-fashioned American detective movie, like the ones they sometimes played on television late at night. High-backed booths covered in rich burgundy leather, wood so dark it was almost black. Iridescent glass chandeliers that bathed the room with a smoky white light. The hair on Arianna’s arms started to rise. Sleek and sensual, the entire space pulsed with expectancy. A simmering promise of something for all who walked in.

      To her left, a large bar lined the wall. More dark wood, only this time the dark was accented with brass rails and shelves filled with glassware. A stocky black man, dressed to fit the setting, stood by the register. His pomade-slicked head was bent over a clipboard, on which he was making notes. The man didn’t look up when she approached.

      Arianna cleared her throat. His attention still on the clipboard, the man reached under the bar and produced a sheet of paper that he thrust toward her. “Fill this out. I’ll tell the owner you’re here.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “You’re here about the job, right?”

      He hooked a thumb at a sign that had been discreetly tucked in the corner of one of the windows. Through the glass, she could make out the backward outline that read Help Wanted.

      “I...”

      Arianna paused. It was a silly idea. Her, working in a restaurant. She’d never worked a day in her life. Not a proper job anyway.

      On the other hand, if she could find a job, she would earn money, and money meant she could postpone going home.

      She would have time to think.

      Make the right choice.

      Ignoring the voice telling her she was making yet another reckless decision, she set her bag on the bar and, before she could change her mind, announced, “Yes. Yes, I would like the job.”

      “I appreciate the enthusiasm,” a voice replied. A low, smooth voice that definitely did not belong to the bartender.

      Arianna looked up and caught her breath. If the club looked like something out of a movie, this man was the movie star. He approached her end of the bar with an elegance that was almost surreal in its smoothness, his double-breasted suit shifting and swaying in a cadence only a custom-made garment could achieve.

      His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass while his eyes were the color of Mediterranean slate. Only a slightly crooked nose prevented his face from complete perfection. Interestingly, the flaw fit him perfectly. As did his surroundings.

      “Max Brown,” he said.

      Arianna started to nod, the way she always did when someone presented themself, then remembered where she was and quickly stuck out her hand. “Arianna.”

      “Nice to meet you, Arianna.” His grip was solid and sure. “Is there a last name?”

      “Santoro.” Arianna cringed as her real name popped out.

      Fortunately, he showed no signs of recognition. “Pleasure to meet you, Arianna Santoro. You’re interested in the waitressing job, are you?”

      “Yes, I am.”

      “Glad to hear it. Have you filled out an application?”

      “Not yet,” the bartender said.

      “I only just walked in,” Arianna explained.

      His smile was as charming as could be. “That’s all right. Why don’t we have a seat, and we can fill in the spaces as we go along.” He motioned toward one of the booths lining the wall. “We don’t need much. Just the usual stuff. Name, address, social security number. Oh, and your firstborn child, of course.”

      Arianna’s stomach lurched.

      “Relax, I was only kidding about the firstborn part,” he said, touching her elbow. “Are you all right?”

      “I’m f-fine.” She supposed it was nerves making her feel queasy. What was she going to say when he asked for details about her identity? Squeezing the bar rail, she focused on breathing through her nose, hoping the lump would work its way back down. Having something in her stomach might help, too; it was past lunchtime after all. “Could I get some chamomile tea and dry toast?” she asked the bartender.

      “You’re ordering food on a job interview?” The man shook his head.

      Max continued to keep his hand on her elbow. “Might not be a bad idea, Darius,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind a fresh cup of coffee.”

      “You want me to go grind the beans for you, too?”

      “And grow the chamomile.”

      The bartender muttered something about his job description, but obliged nonetheless. As soon as he disappeared behind a swinging door, СКАЧАТЬ