She walked through to the kitchen. The calendar was lying on the kitchen table. It was turned to April—showing when she’d had her last period. It had been left there when the realisation had hit her and she’d rushed to the pharmacy for a pregnancy test. She’d bought four.
She wouldn’t need them. She flicked forward. Last date of period, twenty-third of April. Forty weeks from then? She turned the calendar over, counting the weeks on the back. January. Her baby was due on the twenty-eighth of January.
She pushed open her back door and walked outside. The previous owners had left a bench seat, carved from an original ancient tree that had been damaged in a lightning strike years ago. She sat down and took some deep breaths.
It was a beautiful day. The flowers in her garden had all started to emerge. Fragrant red, pink and orange freesias, blue cornflowers, purple delphinium and multi-coloured peonies blossomed in pretty colours all around her, their scents permeating the air.
She smiled. The deep breathing was beginning to calm her. A baby. She was going to have a baby.
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together as a wave of determination washed over her. Baby McDonald might not have been planned. But Baby McDonald would certainly be wanted.
He or she would be loved. Be adored.
A familiar remembrance of disappointment and anger made her catch her breath. For as long as she could remember her parents had made it clear to her that she’d been a ‘mistake’. They hadn’t put it quite in as few words but the implication was always there. Two people who had never really wanted to be together but had done ‘what was right’.
Except it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. Anger and resentment had simmered from them both. The expression on her father’s face when he had left on her eighteenth birthday had told her everything she’d ever needed to know—as had the relief on her mother’s.
She’d been a burden. An unplanned-for presence.
Whether this baby was planned for or not, it would always feel loved, always feel wanted. She might not know about childcare, she might not know about maternity leave, she might not know about her mortgage—but of that one thing, she was absolutely sure.
Her brain skydived somewhere else. Folic acid. She hadn’t been taking it. She’d have to get some. Her feet moved automatically. She could grab her bag; the nearest pharmacy was only a five-minute drive. She could pick some up and start taking it immediately. As she crossed the garden her eyes squeezed shut for a second. Darn it. Folic acid was essential for normal development in a baby. She racked her brains. What had she been eating these last few weeks? Had there been any spinach? Any broccoli? She’d had some, but she just wasn’t sure how much. She’d had oranges and grapefruit. Lentils, avocados and peas.
She winced. She’d just remembered her intake of raspberries and strawberries. They’d been doused in champagne in Montanari. Alcohol. Another no-no in pregnancy.
At least she hadn’t touched a drop since her return.
Her footsteps slowed as she entered the house again. Seb. She’d need to tell him. She’d need to tell him she was expecting his baby.
A gust of cool air blew in behind her, sending every hair on her arms standing on end. How on earth would she tell him? They hadn’t exactly left things on good terms.
She sagged down onto her purple sofa for a few minutes. How did you contact a prince?
Oliver. Oliver Darrington would know. He was Seb’s friend, the obstetrician who had arranged for her to go to Montanari and train the other paediatric surgeons. But how on earth could she ask him without giving the game away? Would she sound like some desperate stalker?
Oh, Olly, by the way...can I just phone your friend the Prince, please? Can you give me his number?
She sighed and rested her head backwards on the sofa watching the yellow ticker tape of the news channel stream past.
Her eyes glazed over. Last time she’d seen Seb she’d screamed at him. Hardly the most ladylike response.
It didn’t matter that his lie had been by omission. That might even seem a tiny bit excusable now. But then, six weeks ago, rationality had left the luxurious chalet she’d found herself in.
It had been a simple mistake. The car driver—or, let’s face it, he was probably a lot more than that—had given a nod and said Your Highness to something Seb had asked him.
The poor guy had realised his mistake right away and made a prompt exit. But it was too late. She’d heard it.
At first she’d almost laughed out loud. She’d been so relaxed, so happy, that the truth hadn’t even occurred to her. ‘Your Highness?’ She’d smiled as she’d picked up her bags to go back in the house.
But the look of horror on Seb’s face had caused her foot to stop in mid-air.
And just like today, the hairs on her arms had stood on end. Seb. Sebastian. The name of the Prince of Montanari. The person who’d requested she train the surgeons in his hospital. The mystery man that she’d never met—because he was doing business overseas.
Just like Seb.
She might as well have been plunged into a cold pool of glacier ice.
‘Tell me you’re joking?’
For the first time since she’d met him, his coolness vanished. He started to babble. Babble. His eyes darting from side to side but never quite meeting her gaze.
She dropped her bags at her feet on the stony path. ‘You’re not, are you?’ He kept talking but she stopped listening. Her brain trying to make sense of what was going on.
‘You’re Sebastian Falco? You’re the Prince?’ She walked right up under his nose.
It must have been the way she’d said it. As if it were almost impossible. As if he were the unlikeliest candidate in the world.
He let out a sigh and those forest-green eyes finally met hers. His head gave the barest shake. ‘Is that so ridiculous?’
The prickling hairs on her arms spread. Like an infectious disease. Reaching parts of her body that definitely shouldn’t feel like that.
Although the rage was building inside her, all that came out was a whisper. ‘It’s ridiculous to me.’
He blinked. She could see herself reflected in his eyes. Hurt was written all over her face. She hated feeling like that. She hated being emotionally vulnerable.
Her mother and father had lived a lie for eighteen years. She’d always promised herself that would never be her life. That would never be her relationship.
She’d thrown caution to the wind and lost. Big style.
He’d made a fool of her. And she’d let him.
‘How could you?’ she snapped. ‘How could you lie to me? What kind of woman do you think I am?’
As she heard the words out loud she almost wanted to hide. She knew exactly what kind of woman
