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His Pregnant Christmas Princess
Leah Ashton


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…







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 (http://www.leah-ashton.com) or facebook.com/leahashtonauthor (http://www.facebook.com).


Also by Leah Ashton (#u5dfefc1f-ca46-5dc3-981a-356b36b0e7c2)

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 (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


His Pregnant Christmas Princess

Leah Ashton






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://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 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.

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.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Linley.

A wonderful friend, and a wonderful writer.

(Also, for Gidget. Just because.)


Contents

Cover (#u4ccaa5db-b79c-50ad-ab37-e1f67687c17b)

Back Cover Text (#uf631807b-123e-5e07-97de-130333d2a230)

About the Author (#u06bacaf4-709d-50d6-b8c2-8bb746fc1a6f)

Booklist (#ucb6a98b8-eddc-550f-a80a-3fc74130408e)

Title Page (#uff00b6b7-d6c1-57fd-a5df-db9d3aba79ea)

Copyright (#u875df7d0-514f-5638-8ace-d547034d99a3)

Dedication (#u91d86d07-2648-5c20-bf1f-a0609f8aa9f8)

PROLOGUE (#uebb76191-b2cb-4462-93d7-d606fd6fa00d)

CHAPTER ONE (#ub12b5e2b-14ba-59c1-863b-d136fac3195a)

CHAPTER TWO (#u8fe169a9-2c36-5242-ad47-f2be4d9342d4)

CHAPTER THREE (#u316f97c3-5b1f-5212-b970-b8ecc8778b6d)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u0d154dab-953e-52f6-b593-8875afb60c58)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u238aaf58-07c2-53b5-a47d-3cd85f409389)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)





PROLOGUE (#u5dfefc1f-ca46-5dc3-981a-356b36b0e7c2)

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 (#u5dfefc1f-ca46-5dc3-981a-356b36b0e7c2)

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.

A librarian and a princess.

Princess Ana of Vela Ada.

Would the title ever sit comfortably on her shoulders? She couldn’t imagine it. It just didn’t seem to fit.

In fact, she’d been so certain it didn’t fit when she’d first opened that letter from her father and seen what he’d done—how he’d finally acknowledged her birth and asked King Lukas to give her her ‘rightful’ title after his death—that she’d seriously considered declining.

She’d liked her life. She’d loved her career, her friends, her apartment. Why would she give all that up? And why would she put herself forward to be scrutinised and criticised? She knew there was a part of the Vela Ada population who’d be unwilling to embrace an illegitimate princess. She knew that her life would be different. And while she’d have money, and opportunities she could never have dreamed of, she would lose her privacy, and be giving up the life she’d lived for twenty-nine years.

In many ways her decision should’ve been easy—an easy No, thanks!—because it had been more than the practicalities of her decision that had loomed large for Ana. It had been the context of this ‘gift’ she’d been presented with.

Because when it came down to it, her father had waited until his death to acknowledge her.

And that made her feel incredibly small.

Her father had felt so strongly that he didn’t want to deal with her—that he couldn’t be bothered dealing with her—that he’d left her all alone to deal with this decision herself. He hadn’t even bothered to ask her on his deathbed. He’d waited until he was gone. He’d kept all the answers to the questions Ana hadn’t even known she wanted to ask from her. For ever.

So, yes. Part of her had wanted to tell the ghost of her father to shove his decision to make her a princess up his—

Anyway.

She hadn’t.

She hadn’t because this wasn’t just about her. Her mother had fought for years for the palace to acknowledge Ana’s existence, and she hadn’t done it quietly. She’d paused in her crusade only when Ana had started kindergarten, when she’d been concerned about how Ana might be treated with such a scandal surrounding her. Her mother had always assumed Ana would pursue her father herself when she was older, but to her mother’s surprise—and disappointment—that had never been a consideration for Ana. For Ana it was clear-cut—her father didn’t want her. What was the point?

So when the decision to become a princess had so unexpectedly arisen, Ana’s answer really hadn’t been about what she wanted. It had been about her mother—it had been a public redemption twenty-nine years in the making.

And despite all that had happened since—the way her life had been turned upside down, leading to that moment outside that church—she couldn’t say she regretted her decision.

But it still felt super-strange to be addressed as Your Highness.

The car slowed and turned off the smooth bitumen they’d been travelling on for well over an hour. Its wheels now crunched over gravel, its headlights the only illumination, as there hadn’t been street lights for many kilometres. Tall trees flanked the narrow road—a driveway, maybe?—but as the car took twists and turns and climbed gradually higher Ana saw no clues to her destination.

Which was a good thing, Ana thought. The more secluded, the more private, the more remote the location the palace could find, the better.

Ever since she’d left that church all she’d wanted was to be away. Far away from her terrible decision to accept Petar’s proposal instead of coming to her senses months ago. Or, better yet, coming to her senses when they’d first met, and she’d said yes to a date purely because he’d been gorgeous and charming and it had seemed crazy not to, rather than because she’d felt a spark of attraction.

But now that she was away—whisked off to a mountain in Northern Italy, no less—what did she do?

The car rolled to a stop.

A modern single-story house constructed mostly of windows sat just above the car, on the slope of a hill. It looked expensive and architecturally designed—the type of house you’d see on one of those fancy home-building TV shows that always go over budget. It was lit by a row of subtle lights that edged the eaves, and a brighter light flooded the entrance and the wooden steps cut into the hill that led to the front door.

There, at the top of the steps, stood a man.

Well, ‘stood’ was being generous. Really, he lounged, with one shoulder propped against the door frame and his long jean-clad legs crossed at the ankle.

He didn’t move as her guards exited the car and opened Ana’s door.

He didn’t even move as Ana herself approached the bottom of the steps. He just stood there—lounged there—and studied her.

It said something about how much her life had changed that Ana noticed he didn’t immediately jump to attention in her presence.

Oddly, it was kind of nice to have someone not clambering to impress her. Not treating her, baselessly, as more special than everybody else.

He did move, though, just before Ana climbed the first step.

He moved effortlessly, fluidly, like an athlete or a—what was it? A panther?

At that ridiculous idea Ana smiled for the first time that day. For the first time in days.

And by the time the man had swiftly descended the steps to greet her she was still smiling.

He met her gaze, taking in her smile. Then, for a moment, he smiled back.

He had a fantastic smile—a smile that made a face that seconds ago she’d subconsciously classified as just nice-looking to become handsome. With his slightly floppy hair, several days’ stubble and rough-hewn cheekbones, he became really handsome, actually.

From nowhere, a blush flooded Ana’s cheeks and an unmistakeable stomach-flipping jolt of attraction took over her body.

Then the man’s smile fell away. In fact, it totally disappeared, as if it had never been there in the first place.

Shame warred with those still un-ignorable tingles that hadn’t gone anywhere. What sort of woman jilts her fiancé at the altar, then has the hots for a total stranger five minutes later?

She straightened her shoulders, suddenly feeling totally aware of the elaborate lacy underwear she’d put on just hours ago for another man. It itched and chafed against her perfidiously heated skin.

Ana’s smile had fallen away now too. The man looked at her with a gaze that was slightly bored, or inconvenienced. It was too dark out here for Ana to make out the colour of his eyes, but they were light. His hair was too. Even in the darkness it contrasted with the black of his coat. He must be blond, or his hair must be the lightest shade of brown.

He was tall too, Ana realised. She was wearing flat-heeled boots, but she was still slightly above average height for a woman, and yet she only came up to his shoulder. He was easily an inch or two over six foot. And broad. His winter clothing added breadth, but those shoulders weren’t just the result of good tailoring.

She sensed him taking in her appearance: her camel-coloured coat, her chequered scarf, her jeans, her boots. And her dishevelled dark brown hair. Her messed-up make-up.

Maybe it was her embarrassment at the state she was in that made her snap a question at him:

‘Who are you?’

He blinked. ‘Žao mi je, ne govorim hrvatski,’ he said carefully, and in a foreign accent.

I’m sorry, I don’t speak Croatian.

Vela Ada’s native language was actually a unique Slavic dialect, but it borrowed heavily from neighbouring Croatia.

Usually she would’ve appreciated the effort to speak her language, but tonight she was just too tired—emotionally and physically exhausted—and too sensitive to the bored judgment she could still see in the man’s gaze.

‘Who…’ she said in English, in the most regal tone she could muster, ‘are…’ a long, pointed pause ‘…you?’




CHAPTER TWO (#u5dfefc1f-ca46-5dc3-981a-356b36b0e7c2)


PRINCESS ANA WAS glaring at him. Her hands were on her hips, her eyes were narrowed and her full lips were in a perfectly straight impatient line.

It was quite late, but Rhys could see well enough in the muted light to acknowledge that Princess Ana was rather more attractive than he’d expected. Oh, he’d known she was pretty—but in person she was just…more. More vivid, somehow. More striking. Striking enough that he’d grinned at her like a moron for who knew how long—until he’d remembered he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a princess about to move in with him.

If anyone but Prince Marko had asked, he would never have agreed to it. He liked his privacy—he needed it, in fact. And he quite literally guaranteed it, with the most cutting-edge security system he’d designed protecting the perimeter of his property.

He never had guests.

He also didn’t need the money the palace had offered. North Security was doing well. Extremely well, actually. This wasn’t a financial decision.

But he had agreed. Because Marko wasn’t one for asking favours. For Marko to call him so unexpectedly, Rhys knew this must be important to his friend. And when Marko had said it was Ana he was trying to help, Rhys hadn’t been surprised.

Rhys remembered the scandal when Prince Goran had died last year, and Marko’s subsequent guilt. His friend had been convinced he should have known he had a long-lost cousin, despite Rhys pointing out that the original saga—and Goran’s denial of paternity—had all taken place well before Marko had turned ten.

But, regardless, Marko had a soft spot for Ana, and so when his new cousin had needed a place to escape to he had called the person best equipped to provide an absolutely secure, absolutely private location far from Vela Ada.

And because it was Marko who’d asked him—and because of that terrible night in the middle of the desert five years earlier—Rhys figured that a favour was the least he could do for the man who’d been there for him at his absolute worst.

Princess Ana gave a little huff of frustration. It was cold enough that it was accompanied by a tiny cloud of condensation.

‘We should go inside,’ he said, suddenly realising how cold he was. How cold they all must be.

The Princess’s two guards were rugged up in black coats and beanies, but rather than encouraging their charge into the warm home they were clearly waiting for direction from Rhys. He had specified to Marko that he must be in charge of all security on the property should Ana come and stay with him, but this was ridiculous. No level of security was much use should they all freeze to death.

He turned on his heel and headed up the stairs. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

He heard the Princess grumbling behind him, but she could clearly see the wisdom in continuing their conversation indoors. She didn’t meet his gaze again until they were inside. One of her guards had helped her shrug off her coat and scarf, and she was now sitting on the low, L-shaped fabric sofa in his living room.

She sat with excellent posture primly on the edge of the seat. She wasn’t meeting his gaze any more. Instead her attention flitted about the small space, not that there was a lot to see. He kept things pretty minimal, and the place was as tidy and streamlined as his interior designer had left it when he’d moved in almost five years ago.

Except for the treadmill and bike parked near the dining table, of course.

Rhys stood in front of her, now in T-shirt and jeans, after discarding his coat on the stand near the front door. ‘My name’s Rhys,’ he said. ‘Rhys North. I’m mates with Marko. We met when he took part in a training exercise with the Australian Special Forces about eight years ago. I’ve now left the regiment and I own a security company. Marko thinks you’ll be safe here, and you will be. Does that answer your question?’

Ana’s gaze met his again and she nodded.

‘I assumed you’d been briefed, Your Highness,’ Rhys said, belatedly remembering to address her correctly.

Ana looked at her guards, who stood there, ultra-professional, in standard bodyguard pose, their hands clasped in front of them. The two guards shared a quick glance.

‘We did provide a briefing, Mr North… Your Highness,’ one of them said, a moment later. ‘However, it has been a very long and trying day—’

‘Oh, God!’ Ana exclaimed suddenly, cutting him off. ‘Really? I’m so sorry.’

She sighed and twisted her fingers in a thick strand of dark brown hair that had fallen loose from what even Rhys could recognise as a wedding hairstyle.

‘I honestly don’t remember much since I left the church. Thank you for so politely excusing the fact that I’ve obviously totally ignored everything you’ve said to me. I’ve just been a joy today, haven’t I? Jilting one man, ignoring others…’ She buried her head in her hands.

Rhys interrupted her self-flagellation. ‘Drink?’ he asked.

Her dark head popped up instantly. ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

Then she flopped back onto his couch, resting her head on the back, her gaze trained on the ceiling.

A few minutes later—after directing the guards to the kitchen to help themselves to a drink and his limited selection of food—Rhys stood before her, drink in hand.

‘Your Highness…?’ he prompted.

Slowly she pushed herself forward until she sat neatly at the edge of the couch again. She briefly met his gaze, and he couldn’t miss the exhaustion and emotion in her eyes. She wasn’t crying, though—didn’t even look close to it.

‘Ana,’ she said. ‘Please call me Ana.’

He nodded. ‘You can address me as Mr North,’ he said, very seriously.

Her eyes widened, and he watched her try to determine if he was joking.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. ‘Okay,’ she said, with the same mock-seriousness he’d employed. ‘I will—Mr North.’

He smiled at her, meeting the sparkle in her gaze. He liked that sparkle, was glad he’d managed to elicit it from her.

‘Rhys,’ he clarified, ‘is fine.’

She grinned. ‘Oh, no, Mr North. I insist. About time someone else had an unnecessary title. Vrag knows, I’m sick of mine.’

‘Vrag?’ Rhys asked, as Ana took the squat ice-filled glass tumbler he handed her.

‘The Devil,’ she explained. Then took a long swallow of her drink. Instantly she coughed, slapping a manicured hand to her throat. ‘What is this?’ she asked.

‘Gin,’ he said.

‘Just gin?’

He nodded. ‘You look like you need a stiff drink.’

She smiled again and then took another, more measured sip. ‘You, Mr North,’ Ana said, ‘are absolutely right.’

* * *

Ana watched Rhys as he walked over to the kitchen to talk to her guards. She wasn’t at all surprised he was ex-military. In fact, he still looked absolutely fit enough to be serving. In his charcoal-coloured T-shirt the muscles of his biceps and arms were clear to see—so different from Petar’s lean frame. Petar was very good-looking, but in a more sophisticated way than Rhys. He was all elegant lines and tailored suits, while Rhys looked rough and strong and practical—the kind of guy who’d carry you out of a burning office building rather than work inside it.

No.

She took another unwise gulp of her drink, wanting another punishing burn of alcohol to travel down her throat. Honestly, mere hours after running away from her fiancé was she really comparing him to another man? And finding her fiancé lacking.

She finished the drink. Even as the liquid warmed her belly she felt like the worst person in the world.

Although she knew now—incontrovertibly—that she did not love Petar, and had never loved Petar, he didn’t deserve having to wait at that church’s altar for her never to arrive. To have the whole church witness that humiliation.

And it wasn’t even just the church. With the wedding being televised, all of Vela Ada would know. He’d been dumped in the most public, most humiliating way possible.

And it was all her fault.

Yet she sat here, in a luxury home on a mountain, having an absolutely gorgeous man serve her drinks and make her laugh. She was being protected from the aftermath of her decision, and she knew it didn’t reflect well on her that she was in no way regretting her decision to run as far away as possible.

She could not be in Vela Ada right now. She could not see Petar right now.

She needed some space to get her thoughts in order, to work out how she’d got to this point, how her life had got to this point.

But Petar did deserve an apology. And more than the swiftly written, utterly insufficient I’m sorry she’d texted to him as the car had whisked her down that cobblestone street.

She stood and walked the short distance to the kitchen. The living space wasn’t very large, and it was all open-plan—with the kitchen to one side, a long dining table in front of it and couches to its left.

All three men in the kitchen immediately turned to assist her. It was one of the nicer perks of being royalty—having people immediately pay attention to her. Quite different from her previous life, where she remembered being talked over in meetings or ignored by sales assistants. Although it did seem unfair that such courtesy wasn’t offered to everyone…

‘Excuse me,’ she said in Slavic to her guards. ‘I was just wondering where my phone and bags are.’

‘We’ve put them in your room, Your Highness,’ one of them replied.

She’d learnt long ago that palace staff would not just call her Ana.

Rhys seemed to have got the gist of the conversation. ‘I’ll show you your room now,’ he said. He gestured down the corridor and followed close behind her.

There were only a few doors off the hallway, and he directed her into the first one.

The room wasn’t large, but it had plenty of room for a queen-sized bed and a narrow writing desk against one wall.

‘There’s a private en suite bathroom through there,’ he said, nodding to the far corner of the room. ‘I chucked a few towels in there, but let me know if you need anything else. I’m not used to having guests up here, so there isn’t any fancy soap, candles or potpourri and whatnot in there. Sorry.’

He did not look at all apologetic.

‘I’ll manage,’ Ana said, and realised she was smiling again. How did Rhys do that? When he talked to her, it was as if she forgot everything that had happened today. Or this year, really.

They both stood in the doorway, and Ana was suddenly aware of how very close they were to each other. She had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze, and she could actually smell him—the scent of his cologne or his deodorant or something—something clean and fresh.

She also registered the colour of his eyes for the first time: a dark blue that was almost grey. Outside, she hadn’t been able to determine the colour of his hair, but when they’d walked in she’d realised it was a very dark blond. This close to him she could see more variation in the thick, shaggy hair—blond and brown and even a few strands of grey.

How old was he?

Her gaze travelled over his face. He had thick eyebrows and strong, quite full lips for a guy, though without even a hint of femininity. There were a few fine lines around his mouth and eyes. Stubble covered his sharp jaw, slightly darker than the hair on his head, and he was definitely the type of guy who suited that look.

She’d already imagined him being the kind of guy who’d rescue you from a burning building—a real hero type, befitting an ex-soldier—but this close to him, seeing his stormy eyes and the shadow of a beard, he looked almost…dangerous. There was a tension to his jaw, a steeliness to his gaze…

She realised, too late, that she was staring at him. Staring into that steely gaze. And he was staring right back.

Obviously she should look away, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

His gaze was taking her in too, and the way it traced her features so intently made her feel incapable of movement. He took in her hair, her eyes, her nose, her lips…

What was he thinking?

Their gazes clashed again, and what she saw in his made her belly heat. Her whole body heat, actually.

Had she ever felt like this before? Reacted like this to a man before? Ana couldn’t remember. She couldn’t really think, to be honest. It was just so shocking to be drawn to this man she’d barely said anything to, whom she didn’t know at all.

Her whole body itched to touch him. They hadn’t touched since they’d met, she realised. They hadn’t shaken hands… Nothing.

What would his skin feel like? Would it be hot, like hers felt right now? And how would it feel to have that big, strong body pressed against her…?

His gaze changed. It became empty, losing all that heat, all that connection. Just like he had outside in the cold, he’d switched off. He’d disappeared, as if that connection had never existed.

It was so abrupt as to feel almost physical. As if someone had dumped a bucket of snow over her head to snap her back to reality.

Reality.

Petar.

‘Thanks for showing me my room, Mr North,’ Ana said, forcing herself to put some distance between them and step into the room.

She fully intended to use his formal name from now on, and it wasn’t a joke any more. Formality was good. It was required. She had no place flirting with this man. Apart from the fact she’d meant to share her wedding night with another man tonight, Rhys was also working for Marko, for the palace. This was all kinds of inappropriate.

‘I need to phone my fiancé,’ she said.

As she said fiancé, Rhys blinked. Or maybe she imagined he’d reacted.

In fact, his expression was so stony, so unreadable, it seemed plausible she’d imagined the entire past few minutes.

It would seem Rhys was keen to forget it had happened.

Good. She’d forget it too. No problem. This was an infinitesimal blip amongst the catastrophic screw-ups of the past twenty-four hours.

But as Rhys left her in her room, Ana had to work hard to ignore the little voice in her head—the little voice that had caused her so many problems today—that told her a man like Rhys North was not at all easy to forget.




CHAPTER THREE (#u5dfefc1f-ca46-5dc3-981a-356b36b0e7c2)


ANA HAD BEEN in her room for over an hour—easily enough time for Rhys to brief the palace guards on his property’s security system, including the mechanics of the fibre-optic perimeter sensors and state-of-the-art surveillance cameras.

He’d had to tweak a few things—mainly because he generally reviewed the footage from his many cameras only if he had a reason to, but while Princess Ana was here one of the guards would be monitoring the cameras 24/7. Although in his five years here Rhys hadn’t seen anything more interesting on film than the goatlike chamois and several curious birds—the golden eagle his favourite—Marko wasn’t taking any risks, and therefore nor was Rhys.

When Ana finally emerged, Rhys had his head in his fridge, trying to work out what on earth he was going to feed a princess for dinner.

‘Excuse me, Mr North?’ she said, very politely.

Rhys took a step back so he could see her past the open fridge door. She looked different: she’d tidied her hair into a long ponytail that fell over one shoulder and she’d washed off the rest of her wedding make-up. It didn’t look as if she’d put any more make-up on, and she’d lost her dramatic eyelashes and the perfect shape of her brows and lips, but she was still—and this was frustrating to Rhys—just as pretty.

The fridge started beeping at him for keeping the door open too long, and he slammed it closed with far more force than necessary, making Ana jump.

He didn’t feel at all comfortable with what had happened in the doorway of her room. Or even earlier, when he’d first seen her. That had been easily dismissed—she was an attractive woman, who wouldn’t gawk at her just a little? But in her room…it had felt pretty intense. Impossible to ignore.

He had wanted Ana. It had been a primal thing, a primal need—something he hadn’t experienced in so very long he hadn’t thought it was possible any more.

Sure, he’d looked at women since Jessica died, but he hadn’t needed a woman. He certainly hadn’t planned to be celibate for so long, but casual sex just didn’t appeal—in fact, it felt somewhat disloyal to Jess just to sleep with some random woman.

Although he could just imagine Jess telling him he was an idiot, and could practically hear her voice telling him it was impossible to cheat on a dead person.

Jess had always been pragmatic. She never would have expected or wanted him to be single for the rest of his life.

But sex with Jess had been special. He’d slept with a few women before Jess, but it had never been with them as it had been with Jess. With other women it had been fun, but it hadn’t been all-consuming. And now he’d experienced more, he didn’t want to return to less.

And tonight… Tonight those moments with Ana had felt like more. Different from Jess, but equally intense. And that intensity had shocked him.

He hadn’t been looking for it, and certainly hadn’t expected to discover it with a woman he was being paid to protect.

And, more important, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to want someone other than Jess. If, even after all these years, he was ready.

‘Mr North?’ Ana prompted.

‘At your service,’ Rhys said, with a deliberate grin. ‘How can I help?’

Her gaze travelled over his face, but it wasn’t the sensual exploration of before—now it looked as if she was trying to work out what was going on. Clearly his smile was not entirely convincing.

‘Where are Adrian and Dino?’ she asked.

‘In the guest house,’ he said.

‘The guest house?’ Ana squeaked, her eyes wide. ‘Why would you have a guest house? You said you don’t have many guests.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t have any guests. It was here when I bought the place. The house only has two bedrooms—I guess the previous owner liked his own space as much as I do.’

‘So we’re alone?’ Ana said, her voice still just a little higher-pitched than usual.

Her obvious discomfort helped Rhys relax a little. For some reason knowing they were both less than thrilled to be alone together helped.

Ana had had a big day—and, given she still called the guy she’d jilted her fiancé, maybe she was still in a relationship. Either way, pursuing anything with Ana given her current circumstances—regardless of the fact he was working for the palace—would be extremely uncool.

So maybe right now wasn’t the time to be concerned about his wants and needs or whatever. There was no maybe, actually—there was no need at all.

Because nothing was going to happen between him and Ana.

* * *

Rhys ate dinner with Ana—which she hadn’t really expected. But they didn’t speak much while they ate, which suited her. The reality of the day required silence for her brain to begin to process it.

Had she really begun today planning to marry one man in Vela Ada and ended her day in a different country with another man altogether? Had she really done that? How had that happened?

Rhys had apologised for the lack of ‘fancy’ food. He’d heated up some lasagne he’d said he bought from a lady down in Castelrotto—the nearest town to Rhys’s property—and cooked some frozen potato wedges in the oven, but it had been fine. Ana hadn’t been in the mood for ‘fancy’ anyway. She didn’t really feel she deserved it, given she’d probably caused the waste of the hundreds of fancy meals planned for her wedding reception.

She’d forgotten to ask Petar about that. She hoped that at least some of the food had been somehow repurposed. Maybe for a homeless shelter? Or maybe gifted to the army of staff who had worked at the reception venue?

Anyway, Ana did know that the reception hadn’t gone on without her. She had naively hoped that maybe everyone had headed to the palace anyway, after it had been announced that the wedding wasn’t happening. She’d imagined a great big party, everyone having a fabulous time without her, dancing to the live band, drinking all the very expensive champagne.

That idea had made her feel a little better—at least if the party had gone ahead, then she hadn’t ruined the day for everyone. There’d been something salvaged from it.

But, no. Petar had said everyone had just gone home after they’d worked out that there really wasn’t going to be a wedding.

‘What would they have been celebrating?’ he’d asked, incredulous.

Which was a fair comment, Ana acknowledged.

What she hadn’t said in reply was: They could’ve celebrated me realising just in time that marrying you would be a terrible mistake.

Ana imagined a ballroom full of people, all dancing in celebration of Ana the Runaway Princess, maybe with balloons and streamers…

‘May I ask what you’re smiling about?’ Rhys asked.

He’d pushed his seat back a little and relaxed into it. His plate was empty, his cutlery neatly placed diagonally.

Ana covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I shouldn’t be smiling,’ she said. ‘I hurt a lot of people today.’

Not only Petar, but her mother too. Her grandparents. Her friends.

‘But you were smiling,’ Rhys prompted. ‘You have been for several minutes.’

How hadn’t she noticed him looking at her?

She didn’t know how to answer his question. As she’d said, she shouldn’t be smiling. She shouldn’t be feeling happy. She should be feeling bad. Guilty.

‘Why do you think I’m smiling?’ she threw back at him.

He folded his arms in front of his broad chest. ‘I have no idea,’ he said calmly. ‘That’s why I asked. I was curious.’

‘I’d rather not say,’ she said quickly. Then added, keen to change the subject, ‘Where in Australia are you from?’

‘Melbourne,’ he said.

That was it—no further elaboration. They fell into another silence.

Ana realised that Rhys was waiting for her to finish her meal before leaving the table, which was very polite of him. She knew she should tell him he didn’t need to wait for her—given she had so unexpectedly turned up at his doorstep, she could hardly expect him to be an attentive host. But she didn’t.

She liked having Rhys sitting at the table with her. She liked him, she realised. On a day that was definitely a low point in her life, he’d managed to make her smile—more than once.

Sure, she’d freaked out a bit when she’d realised they’d be alone in his house together, but it was clear now that nothing was going to happen between them. She hadn’t been able to interpret his expression when she’d first walked into the kitchen, after her call with Petar, but it had certainly held none of the heat from before. But it wasn’t that stony emptiness he seemed to so easily switch to either—that expression that gave nothing away.

If anything, she would have said he looked sad.

But that didn’t seem to fit with this strong, handsome, confident man—and she’d seen no evidence of sadness since.

She must have imagined it.

‘My fiancé seems to think I just have cold feet,’ she said suddenly.

Rhys’s expression was instantly uncomfortable. ‘You want to talk about your fiancé with me?’

Ana shrugged. She needed to talk to someone. ‘You asked why I was smiling. I thought you might be interested.’

‘That was because you have a nice smile—not because I want to know the details of your relationship.’

The casually spoken compliment did not go unnoticed, and Ana fought the blush that crept up her neck. She kept on talking in an effort to ignore it. ‘I just thought it was weird,’ she continued. ‘I thought he should know I wouldn’t do something so dramatic on a whim.’

Rhys didn’t say anything, but equally he didn’t get up, even though she’d now also arranged her cutlery in the ‘finished’ position.

‘He was incredibly calm on the phone before. If someone did that to me, I’d be really angry. Wouldn’t you?’

Rhys shrugged, non-committal.

‘He was all kind and patient and supportive. And you know what’s also weird?’ Ana didn’t wait for an answer—not that she expected one. ‘He didn’t seem particularly hurt. He made the conversation all about me—about how I must have felt so stressed, and overwhelmed, and how so much has happened in my life in the past twelve months, blah-blah-blah…’ She sighed. ‘Not that I want him to be feeling terrible, but I expect I would. I mean, I know I would if the man I loved didn’t turn up to our wedding.’

Ana looked down at her fingers as she absently traced the curved edge of her dinner plate. Her nails still looked immaculate, yesterday evening’s French manicure remaining perfect and unchipped.

‘It actually makes me a bit angry, really, that he was so calm,’ Ana realised. ‘If he cared about me, he’d…well, care more.’

‘Maybe he prefers to keep his emotions close to his chest,’ Rhys said.

Ana’s gaze jerked up to meet his gaze. ‘Or maybe he’s just continuing to be the perfect fiancé he always has been.’

She knew she didn’t make it sound as if that was a good thing.

‘You don’t want a perfect fiancé?’ Rhys asked.

‘No one’s perfect,’ Ana said. ‘But Petar has done everything in his power to pretend to be. Today I finally stopped lying to myself. Petar is prepared to do anything to become a member of the Vela Ada royal family. He’s never loved me.’

Despite acknowledging to herself that she didn’t love her fiancé, and subsequently realising today that Petar didn’t love her either, saying it out loud made it all real.

And that hurt.

Her gaze fell back to her plate as hot tears prickled.

‘It was always too good to be true,’ she said. ‘A man like Petar would never have wanted someone like me if I wasn’t a princess. Even today, after I’ve humiliated him, he’s still doing everything he can to change my mind. The way he’s reacted is supposed to be endlessly understanding and romantic, but really it’s all a total farce.’

Rhys murmured something that sounded a bit rude under his breath, but Ana didn’t quite catch it.

‘Pardon me?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

Ana straightened her shoulders and then pushed back her chair, ready to stand.

‘Wait,’ he said. He met her gaze and held it. ‘You made the right decision.’

‘How do you know that?’ Ana asked. ‘Because I can tell you know you did—even if you haven’t realised it yet,’ he said. ‘And also, a guy who is sitting back in Vela Ada, rather than doing everything in his power to find you, to try to change your mind? Well, he’s not the right guy. He doesn’t deserve you if he won’t fight for you.’

After her day—and the confusing maelstrom of guilt and hurt and disappointment that continued to whirl within her—it was the perfect thing to hear.

And he was right. She could regret hurting people, but she couldn’t regret finally coming to her senses.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and it would have been so easy to lose herself in the depths of his blue-grey gaze. In the gaze of a man she had no doubt would fight for the woman he loved. But instead she stood, and then added, ‘…Mr North.’




CHAPTER FOUR (#u5dfefc1f-ca46-5dc3-981a-356b36b0e7c2)


IT TOOK HOURS for Ana to fall asleep.

Her thoughts weren’t particularly coherent as exhaustion warred with her overthinking, but they centred mostly on her immediate family: her mother and grandparents. How must they be feeling?

Her mother had sent her several text messages, but she’d responded to only one, just to reassure her she was okay and would be home in a few days’ time.

Her mother would be devastated. She’d fought for years for Ana to be acknowledged by the royal family, and now that she had been, her mother was convinced Ana’s life was perfect. Petar had been a natural progression of that perfection—the living embodiment of all of her mother’s dreams come true.

Ana could see now that she’d bought into it too—that she’d allowed herself to be swept up in Petar and the idea she was living a fairy-tale happy-ever-after.

Their engagement, and then agreeing to a televised wedding—it had all been part of Ana’s fantasy life. The life that her mother had always dreamed of for her only daughter.

Maybe that was why she’d allowed it to go so ridiculously far, despite her reservations—which she had had, no matter how well she’d repressed them. Maybe she’d just wanted to make her mother happy.

But that felt like such a cop-out. Ana was her own woman. She alone was ultimately responsible for dating Petar, for accepting his proposal and for actively organising her own magazine-spread wedding.

She’d done all that, and now, as she tossed and turned in a strange bed in the mountains of Northern Italy, she was no closer to working out why…

Thanks to the heavy blackout curtains in her room, it was dark when Ana eventually woke from a dreamless sleep. She had a shower, got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and headed out into the kitchen.

It was mid-morning, and the curtains that had covered the walls of windows last night had all been pulled aside, revealing the remarkable view the house offered of the surrounding Dolomites. And what a spectacular view it was—all snow-capped mountain ranges and emerald tree-filled vistas that rolled and dipped. Even though it was November, the sun was bright today, showcasing the stunning view in perfect, postcard-worthy light.

However, Ana didn’t spend a particularly long amount of time admiring the view, as just at her left she had an alternative view on offer.

Rhys North, jogging on his treadmill.

His back was to her as he ran, his attention focused on the view in front of him.

He wore a loose sleeveless T-shirt that revealed arms and shoulders heavy with muscle, and knee-length jogging shorts. All his clothing was dark with sweat, which possibly should have been unattractive, but somehow Rhys managed to make sweat seem virile and strong.

He must have heard her, because he punched a button on the treadmill’s console and slowed to a walk.

He turned to catch her gaze over one shoulder. ‘Just need to cool down,’ he said.

Ana walked up to him. ‘Good morning,’ she said.

He grinned a greeting. ‘Good morning to you too.’

‘Sorry about last night,’ Ana blurted out suddenly. ‘I shouldn’t have rambled on about all that stuff. You’re my bodyguard, or my hotelier or something—’

‘Security consultant,’ Rhys interjected helpfully, with another grin.

‘Okay,’ Ana said. ‘Security consultant. But that definitely doesn’t require you to play psychologist or counsellor. I’m sure you didn’t want to hear all the messy details of my relationship.’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t mind.’

He pushed another button and the treadmill came to a stop. He then unselfconsciously used the bottom of his shirt to clear his brow of sweat, the action revealing what seemed like hectares of muscular abdominal ridges.

Oh, my.

* * *

Rhys honestly hadn’t planned to do that. It had been an automatic action, but seeing Ana blush as she took in his chest and stomach made him glad he had. He was human, he had an ego and he worked damn hard to stay this fit… So, yes, it felt good to see that Ana liked what she saw. Really good.

He took longer than necessary to wipe his face—which probably made him a very bad person, given nothing had changed as far as the situation between him and Ana. She’d just ended a relationship. He was protecting her.

But he couldn’t help himself.

It was just like those long minutes in her room…magnetic and addictive. And all the more so because he knew nothing would happen. He didn’t have to worry about Jess, or about how he’d feel being with a woman other than his wife. He didn’t need to deal with any of the complicated stuff—he needed only to experience this undeniable snap and tension between him and the Princess.

As he dragged his shirt back down, Ana jerked her gaze towards the window.

‘Amazing,’ she breathed.

Seriously?

He grinned. ‘Well, I’ll take that—’

She whirled to face him, muttering a string of Slavic curses to herself. ‘I meant the view, Mr North,’ she said firmly.

He was starting to really like her insistence on addressing him so formally. It felt like a shared joke, almost intimate—it certainly wasn’t putting space between them, as he knew she intended it to.

She was staring with determination at his face, not allowing her gaze to drift.

‘Christmas must be wonderful here, Mr North,’ she said.

‘Christmas?’ he asked, thrown by the change of subject.

She clasped her hands primly in front of her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Christmas. I believe Castelrotto is famous for how beautiful it is at Christmas time. I couldn’t sleep last night, so did a bit of research about where I’m staying, and Christmas is clearly a big thing here. There’s a Christmas market that starts in a few weeks—during Advent. Is it as enchanting as all the tourist websites say?’

Rhys stepped off the treadmill and headed to the kitchen for a drink of water.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said, quite stiffly.

She followed him. ‘Really? I’d imagine you’d need to go to quite a bit of effort to avoid it, given how small the town is.’

He filled a tall glass with water. ‘I don’t avoid the market,’ Rhys said. ‘I just don’t pay much attention to anything to do with Christmas.’

She was looking at him, curiosity wrinkling her forehead. She’d kept her hair down today, and it hung in heavy waves over her shoulders. It would be much easier to answer with a white lie—Ana would have neither known nor cared if he’d just agreed that the market was, in fact, enchanting.

‘I adore Christmas,’ Ana said. ‘I always have.’ She paused, then said carefully, ‘Do you not have a family to celebrate with?’

He downed the water in a series of long swallows, really hoping that Ana would walk away. But of course she didn’t.

Here was another opportunity to lie—as Ana had pointed out, it wasn’t his role to play counsellor or psychologist. Equally, it wasn’t his role to spill his guts.

‘I have a big family back in Australia,’ he said. ‘A sister, a brother, great parents and a wonderful extended family. Christmas was incredible when I was growing up—my parents have a huge pool in the backyard and we’d host a barbecue for the whole family and anyone who had no one else to celebrate with. It was great. I loved it.’

So he didn’t lie.

What was it about this woman?

He knew the question she was going to ask next.

‘What happened?’ she said.

The sympathy in her eyes almost made him leave the room. He’d never wanted this—never wanted people to feel sorry for him. To pity him. Yet to this woman who’d exposed her own vulnerability to him last night he found he could be nothing but honest.

‘My wife died,’ he said simply. ‘And everything changed.’




CHAPTER FIVE (#u5dfefc1f-ca46-5dc3-981a-356b36b0e7c2)


‘I’LL JUST GO take a shower,’ Rhys said into the stunned silence, as Ana struggled to work out what to say. What could she say?

But she didn’t need to work it out, because only moments later she was alone.

‘My wife died.’

Ana had not expected Rhys to say that. Although, on reflection, it had been stupid to ask him what had changed: he’d clearly had an idyllic childhood, so something had to have gone catastrophically wrong for his view of Christmas to change so dramatically.

‘My wife died.’

Ana walked into the kitchen and searched through the overhead cupboards for a mug and in the large walk-in pantry for some coffee. Then she stared out at the view as the kettle boiled.

‘My wife died.’

She would never have guessed Rhys had ever been married—he had the cocky confidence of a handsome perennial bachelor, in no hurry to settle down. And, besides, he lived alone in a two-bedroom home in the middle of nowhere—albeit a spectacularly picturesque middle of nowhere.

But not the type of place that screamed wife and family, or even kids.

The water had boiled, so Ana poured herself a strong coffee, with only a dash of milk from the fridge, and took a seat at the breakfast bar, angling her stool so she still faced the view.

Immediately outside the house the ground sloped away in a rolling curve of thick grass, liberally sprinkled with tiny yellow flowers. It undulated for a while, before merging with a dense forest, and then beyond the forest sat the angular, brutal shapes of the surrounding mountains—the tallest with a mantle of snow.

From here, Ana couldn’t see another building—certainly not another person. It was the perfect place to hide for a runaway bride.

Or for a grieving husband.

Her throat was tight and prickly, her coffee forgotten in her hand, when Rhys strode back into the room.

She met his gaze, and Rhys’s eyes immediately narrowed in response. ‘Please don’t,’ he said.

‘Don’t what?’ she asked.

‘Feel sorry for me.’

‘I can’t even begin to imagine—’ Ana said.

He shook his head, silencing her. ‘Please,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t.’

Ana nodded.

He caught her gaze again. ‘Her name was Jessica. It was five years ago,’ he said in clipped tones. ‘Sudden. Brain aneurysm.’ A pause, then a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘People tend to want to know the headlines.’

He was right, she had been curious. She started to open her mouth to say something—but he silenced her again with only a look.

He was right to do so. She had been about to say something empty—albeit heartfelt—and sympathetic.

But what to say instead?

Ana noticed for the first time that he had a small backpack slung over one shoulder, and as she watched he headed for his coat rack and retrieved a pair of boots from its base.

‘I’m going for a walk,’ he said.

‘Can I come?’ Ana asked.

* * *

Rhys hadn’t expected Ana to want to join him and he very nearly said no.

But instead he shrugged. ‘If you want.’

He’d spent a lot of time hiking through the mountains of Seiser Alm after he left the regiment. He’d hiked alone, and as he’d walked he’d spent time in his own thoughts, in his own grief.

But then one day, a few months after he’d moved to Castelrotto, he’d arrived home from his hike, his brain buzzing with an idea he’d had about starting his own security business—about transferring his military expertise to private security systems and consulting. And he’d realised he hadn’t thought of Jess the entire time.

At the time, his guilt had made him cry. Cry with his head in his hands on the steps of this house he’d bought that was nothing like the home he’d had with Jess back in Melbourne. Cry as he hadn’t since the day Jess had died.

But later he’d realised it had been a turning point. And now it was his new normal—he still loved Jess, he still grieved for Jess and sometimes all he could think of was her. But at other times he thought of other things.




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