The Billionaire Prince’s Pregnant Fiancée by Leslie North

1

The wedding had been stunning, as so many weddings at the Nash Conservatory at Kew Gardens were. The arched glass windows looked out on a deep blue, star-strewn sky. The circular dinner tables were decked in ivory and gold cloths, gleaming silverware, and breathtaking floral arrangements. The revelers, those who were left, looked well-fed, dazed, and happy.

All Clara Campbell wanted was to go home.

Clara suppressed a sigh as she and the other servers went about clearing tables and carting dishes back to the kitchen. She carried a tray of dirty dishes and glasses to the washer, arms aching with the strain. It had been a long day, in an already long week, and she was knackered.

She hadn’t planned on picking up a double shift, but a coworker had begged her to cover the wedding because she was feeling poorly, and Clara knew that tips at weddings could be good—especially when there was an open bar. So what if she’d worked a full schedule already this week at The Botanical, one of the Gardens’ other restaurants, and put in some hours canvassing and making phone calls at her favorite political campaign? Every pound she earned was another pound she could squirrel away towards going to uni. Once she earned that political degree, she wouldn’t serve another Bridezilla or dodge another bum-pinching drunk uncle ever again. She’d have a career that she was passionate about. One that could make a huge difference.

But for right now, all she wanted to do was to head back to her flat, turn on the telly, and fall asleep.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. Now that the happy couple have headed off for their honeymoon, it looks like we’ll be wrapping up for the night,” the wedding singer said, in the most sinful, utterly scrumptious voice Clara had ever heard. The crowd had thinned significantly, but the stragglers protested immediately—most of them had partied raucously during the reception itself, and now those who remained tended to be drunk. “Fine, fine,” he conceded. “Just one last song.”

Despite her exhaustion, she found herself smiling.

He chose a love song, something slow and soulful. His voice rubbed over her like silk, just like it had all night, and she couldn’t help herself; she stopped mid-task, listening, looking. The singer was tall, with dark honey-blond hair that looked bed-tousled and just a bit wild. He wore a simple suit, but he wore the hell out of it. When he caught her staring, his lips curved into a smile that had her shivering right down to her toes.

All night, he’d been singing to her, it seemed. Well, that was probably wishful thinking. But from the way their gazes seemed to lock as he performed tune after tune, especially the ballads, she didn’t think she was completely off base. When she’d brought him a glass of water on one of their breaks, and he’d said “thank you” with a warm smile and a hot look of appreciation? She almost fanned her hand in front of her face just from the memory.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been around a man like him, so talented and sexy. And she’d never been around a man who sounded like he was trying to seduce her with his singing.

What’s worse: it was working.

The song drew to a close, and she felt a pang of regret. “That’s really it for us tonight,” he said into the microphone, his tie loosened around his neck, and the top button of his white dress shirt open. He looked gorgeous. He winked at her, light blue eyes sparkling like diamonds, and heat flashed through her like a forest fire. “We’re Moonlight Serenade. Have a wonderful evening!”

With that, the last of the guests finally shuffled out, leaving only the debris from the wedding reception. The band started packing up its instruments, chuckling and talking amongst themselves. Sighing, she turned back to her tasks. The sooner she could get the tablecloths stripped and dumped into the laundry, the sooner she could get home to her flat.

She was startled when a strong pair of arms started mimicking her actions, helping her take tablecloths off the various tables. “Where do you want these?”

She blinked. It was him. Sex God Wedding Singer.

Oh. My. God.

“Uh… oh!” She finally reacted. “You don’t have to do that.”

“You’ve been working hard all night, I noticed,” he said with a warm smile. “Thought you could use a hand.”

Gobsmacked, she let him follow her to the hamper, where they dumped in the dirty table coverings. “You’re really good,” she said. “At singing, I mean.”

“Thank you.” When he smiled this time, she could see a dimple flash in his cheek. “My name’s Erik.” He held out a hand.

She reached for it. When his palm met hers, the spark of attraction startled her. “C-clara,” she replied, then cursed herself for bobbling.

Good lord. This man was weapons-grade attractive. A woman would find herself doing unbelievably stupid things for a man this good-looking.

She ought to go. She’d finished her shift, and they were closing the place down. The band was retreating. But somehow, she and this singer still lingered in the darkening room. She went to grab her coat. He stayed by her side.

“Um… so are you based in London?” she said.

“Actually, no.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not even a member of the band. A mate of mine is the usual lead singer, but he got laryngitis. He didn’t want to wreck the contract—it’s hard to be an approved entertainer with Kew Gardens—so I agreed to step in.”

“That was very kind of you,” she said, biting her lip as regret stabbed at her. Regret at what, though? That she wouldn’t see him again? Even if he were in London, what were the odds they’d cross paths again? She shook her head at her own foolishness.

“So… goodnight,” she said, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

“It’s late,” he noted, his footsteps matching hers as they strolled toward the exit. “Do you live nearby? How were you planning on getting home?”

She stared at him, and he reddened.

“I’m so sorry! That probably sounded creepy,” he said, quickly apologizing. “It’s just… I wanted to make sure you got on all right.”

She laughed, shaking her head. Maybe it was foolish, but she simply didn’t feel frightened of this beautiful man, and his voice had been protective, not provocative.

More’s the pity.

She blinked at herself.

Wait. What?

She shook off the thought. “I don’t work this late generally, but trust me, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure.” He shifted his weight on his feet, his hands in his pockets.

“What about you?” she asked, surprising herself by nudging his shoulder. “You think you can manage all by yourself?”

He chuckled, nudging her back, his eyes bright with mischief. She felt warmth spread in her belly. “Actually, it’s a bit scary on my own. Don’t suppose you’d keep me company until I got to my hotel?”

She quirked an eyebrow, enjoying this flirting, feeling a burst of energy. She was so used to sleazy men who hit on her with weak lines and blatant leering. This was fun.

“Depends. Where’s your hotel?” She batted her eyes.

“London.”

“Well, that is where I’m heading,” she said, tapping her chin. “Train, or Tube?”

“Neither,” he replied. “My friend loaned me his car.”

“I’m not supposed to get in cars with strange men,” she murmured, only half-joking. She glanced at her phone. It was after midnight, and she was exhausted. The thought of waiting at Kew Bridge station that late, and the long train ride after, was daunting. And if she was being honest, spending more time with Erik sounded appealing.

Erik went quiet, nodding, then took a deep breath. “Listen, can I be frank?”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Please.”

“I am so attracted to you, it’s a bit crazy.”

She burst out laughing. “That is frank.”

“I’m serious. I haven’t been able to stop staring at you all night,” he continued earnestly. “There’s just something about you that calls to me. Even if we just wind up talking all night, I’d love to spend more time with you.”

She swallowed hard, her heart beating furiously in her chest. She’d felt it, too, hadn’t she? That bizarre, overpowering attraction. Lately, she’d been so tired from overworking that she’d sworn that Adonis himself couldn’t tempt her out past ten. But this man? She’d just worked a double, and she was ready to stay up till dawn, just to talk.

Or other things…

She frowned. “Do you mind if I do something first?”

“What is it?”

“Could I… kiss you?”

He blinked slowly. Then he let her have a slow, unbelievably sexy smile, his eyes intense. “Please. By all means.”

She hesitated. Took a breath. Then, she leaned forward, on her tiptoes, and kissed him.

It was both brilliant and probably the biggest mistake of her life. The kiss rocked through her like a tidal wave. She made a little sound, clutching his jacket like a life preserver, as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight to him. The kiss seemed to go on and on, blazing through them both.

They pulled away, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. They were both breathing raggedly.

“Come to my hotel,” he said, desire naked in his eyes.

She knew what he was asking. What he wanted.

What she wanted, too.

“All right.”

* * *

Clara was amazed she didn’t spontaneously combust on their way to London. The car was nice, not that she knew anything about them, and Erik drove at a good clip, but nothing dangerous. He joked, hummed along with the radio, and kept sneaking peeks at her from the corner of his eye. She knew because she couldn’t help staring at him.

He was too gorgeous. It shouldn’t be allowed.

She didn’t generally have one-night stands. But if she were going to break her own rule—more a guideline, really, she reassured herself—then it made sense that she’d break it for this man.

It was nearly one when they arrived at the hotel, and she’d been paying too much attention to her companion to focus on where he was taking her. When they finally stopped, she looked around, surprised. Then she couldn’t help it: she gaped. It was one of the newer hotels on the Thames, a gleaming black knifepoint of a building, slashing into the sky. It was easily the poshest establishment she’d ever seen.

“You can’t be staying here,” she hissed, taking his hand after he gave the valet the keys. “This place is like something out of a film!”

“It is, isn’t it?” He ushered her through the lobby, with its towering ceiling and columns, over to the bank of elevators.

This was crazy. “How can you afford this?” she asked, as they got in the elevator.

“Ah. Yes. That.” He paused, then shot her a grin. “Would you believe I won it in a contest?”

She barked out a laugh. Erik might be gorgeous, but if he thought she’d believe that…

“A singing contest,” he added.

That stopped her. “Actually, after hearing you, that seems plausible.”

He reddened, swaying closer to her, pressing a kiss against her neck. She shivered, curling into his embrace as he slung an arm around her. They walked down the hallway, and he opened the door, letting her in.

If she’d thought the outside of the building was impressive, the room—no, the suite—itself was mind-blowing. It was as large as her flat in Tower Hamlets, but much more luxurious. Over the headboard, a painting of cherry blossoms in shades of white and pale gold stretched over what looked like sand-colored silk. The king-sized bed had snowy white sheets that probably had a thread count of a billion. There was an eating nook in front of those huge windows, with a glass table, as well as a separate sitting area with deep plush sofas. She peeked in the bathroom. In addition to the shower, there was a deep oval tub—with a view.

Oh, the view! One that could be seen from everywhere in the hotel room.

“That’s the Tower Bridge,” she breathed. Past the floor-to-ceiling windows, all of London stretched out in front of them, lights shining like gems.

“You like it?” Erik said.

It occurred to Clara that she was in over her head. No way did a wedding singer wind up with a luxury suite as sumptuous as this. She knew nothing about this man. This was foolishness.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt the warmth of him, the hardness. The gentleness and passion.

“What else can I show you, that you might like?” he mused, his breath fanning across her skin as he pressed heated kisses to her shoulders, her jawline.

She closed her eyes. He was like a damned siren from Greek mythology. She could no more resist him than stop the tide from coming in.

“I can think of a few things,” she whispered and kissed him back.