Falling for the Pregnant Heiress Read online

  He supposed that was a good enough reason for her not to want to be thought of as spoiled—though compared to Seth and Jake she had been.

  When everything was clean, she turned to go back to the extra room, but he stopped her. “Let’s get all of our stuff and that way we can drive to the airstrip from Pierre’s.”

  He didn’t want to mention that when they got to Pierre’s and she told the Frenchman about their baby, Pierre might want her to stay, and this way she’d have all her things. Trent was nothing more than a guy doing a favor for the sister of a friend. It would be good for her and Pierre to talk this out, maybe even needing a few days together to get through all of it, maybe deciding they wanted to make a commitment for the sake of their child.

  But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  In fact, he absolutely hated it. She rarely danced with Pierre. She never talked about Pierre making her happy.

  And he was delivering Sabrina and her baby right to his door.

  That was beginning to rankle.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TRENT WAITED FOR her to get her things from the extra room and laughed when she came out lugging a suitcase bulging at the seams.

  “We should stop and get you another bag. Or you could just leave some of the clothes behind with the blue sparkly dress.”

  She pretended great interest in searching through her purse. “Actually, I packed the blue dress.”

  That brought him up short. “Really?”

  She met his gaze. “It grew on me.”

  Her eyes flickered the tiniest bit. A person who hadn’t known what to look for would have missed it. He almost teased her about wanting the dress as a memento of a good time but stopped himself. He liked the idea of something he’d bought her hanging in her closet. He couldn’t have her, but it was nice that they’d made a connection. Nice that she wanted to keep something he’d bought her.

  He made a quick call to the doorman and when they stepped out onto the street, his shiny black Jaguar awaited them. The doorman opened the passenger-side door. She got in and Trent rounded the hood to get behind the wheel.

  “I still say you should start a mutual fund.”

  Ah. On a long drive, the safest thing to talk about was business.

  Punching the address of Pierre’s house into the GPS, he said, “Not a chance.”

  “Maybe volunteer to be a mentor at my nonprofit.”

  He laughed.

  “Maybe give just one lecture.”

  He almost said an automatic, “No,” until he realized that getting involved with her business would keep them connected, keep him in her life. The scramble of his pulse at just the thought told him it was a bad idea. He was taking her to the father of her child, the man she should at least consider letting into her life, for her baby’s sake. There was no place for him in that equation.

  He pulled the car onto the street. “I’m a professional hider. Normal people don’t know who I am. Bankers do. Investors do. But I can go to a coffee shop or restaurant without being recognized. I like it that way.”

  She said, “Humph,” and settled back on her seat, but he could see the wheels of her brain were turning.

  “You’re not going to change my mind.”

  “You’re so sure.”

  Keeping his attention on the road, he said, “Yep.” He paused for a second then said, “Don’t you like being Sally McMillan, getting away from your life?”

  She cut him a look.

  “That’s my life all the time. Private. Secure. I can do anything I want—as long as I don’t break the law—and no one cares.”

  The GPS took them out of Barcelona and onto a long stretch of road that wound through the country. The day was warm, the sun bright. Rays hit the leaves and grass and seemed to shimmer around them.

  “Mind if I put the car’s top down?”

  She ran her hand down her loose hair. “Sure. It’s not like I have a hairdo. Even if it tangles, I can brush it out. So I’m game.”

  He pulled off the road and lowered the top. In a few minutes they were cruising again, taking the advice of his GPS, with the wind in their hair. The noise of the air swirling around them precluded conversation, but there was something poetic about the silence. He liked peace and privacy. He loved the beauty of Spain and he felt like he was sharing that with Sabrina, a woman who seemed to use business—even the business of her art—so she didn’t really have to experience life.

  Shaking his head at the stupidity of his thoughts—he was neither a poet nor a philosopher—he cleared his head and focused on enjoying the drive. A little over an hour later, the GPS took them through a series of turns that led to their destination.

  As he navigated a long lane framed on each side by wood fences that created a corral on both sides of the roadway, he watched Sabrina take it all in. Cattle, barns and outbuildings, all under the dome of a matchless blue sky.

  He stopped in front of a pale brown stucco house and said nothing as she stared at the huge two-story structure. An etched-glass door, trimmed in dark brown wood with two glass globe lights standing sentinel, held her attention for at least a minute before she glanced over at him.

  “Maybe he just rents the house?”

  Trent shrugged. “Maybe.” He hopped out of the car and eased around to the passenger side. Sabrina still hadn’t moved. Heat shimmered around them in the stagnant air. The cattle were too far away to hear. If there was farm machinery working, the sounds of it also didn’t reach the house. The dwelling had probably been located here for exactly that reason. To protect it from the sights, sounds and smells of the ranch.

  It seemed Pierre was a tad craftier than everyone had given him credit for.

  Trent opened the door. Sabrina delicately stepped out, but Trent suddenly envisioned her in the same jeans and T-shirt except wearing boots and a cowboy hat rather than sandals with her wild hair flowing around her. Would it even occur to her that she could fit here? Would it even occur to her that the prim and proper way her mom had raised her was to please a dad who had been dead for years...that she could be herself?

  She passed her hand through her hair as if just remembering it had been tossed by the wind for over an hour. But rather than reach for a brush or comb, she glanced around again. Then shook her head and pointed at the steps leading to a porch with a dark brown railing.

  “Let’s go.”

  His heart sank. It was almost as if she’d seen what he’d seen. With her hair slightly messed and in blue jeans, she belonged here.

  Would Pierre see that, too? Would the father of her baby see her in his home and realize she could fit?

  Did Sabrina want Pierre to see her in his home and recognize that she belonged here...with him?

  * * *

  Sabrina took a silent breath, hoping to unscramble the confusion in her brain as she led Trent up the steps of Pierre’s house. She saw dollar signs everywhere. The pristine grounds, the older home that had clearly been remodeled; the sheer expanse of land around her told her this was no winter retreat. This was a working ranch.

  Still, she pasted a smile on her face before she rang the doorbell. As she waited for Pierre, she wished Trent wasn’t with her because she had the oddest sense she was going to lambaste her ex for lying. Even if it was a lie by omission.

  It so wasn’t her. She didn’t lambaste anybody. She stood up for her clients. She also stood her ground with her clients when they didn’t like her advice. She could be tough, determined.

  She simply didn’t get into fights. She didn’t lambaste people. She rarely even raised her voice. She let her facts and figures stand on their merit.

  She didn’t need to lambaste anybody.

  She rang the bell again and looked around the ranch one more time.

  A ranch might not be her style of living, but for heaven’s sake, if Pierre owned this, he’d
been seriously downplaying his net worth to her, getting her to pay his airfare to the US when he visited, letting her subtly pick up every check in every restaurant.

  The insult of it resurrected an indignation she couldn’t quash, as outrage over his dodging expenses sent a crackle of energy through her veins.

  This time when she rang the bell, she hit it hard and let her finger rest on the button. The sound was so loud they could hear it on the porch.

  “You might want to ease up on the bell, Skippy.”

  “He’s not going to ignore me.”

  The door jerked open. A middle-aged woman with dark hair and huge dark eyes gaped at her as she rattled off something in Spanish.

  Sabrina glanced at Trent who said, “She wants to know why you’re holding on to the bell.”

  Sabrina yanked her finger away.

  “Tell her I’m here to see Pierre.”

  He said something that Sabrina couldn’t translate but which ended with Pierre.

  The woman answered. Trent turned to Sabrina with a sigh. “He’s not here.”

  Sabrina spun to face him. “What!”

  “Pierre’s not here. She’s a maid just finishing her weekly work, about to go home for the day.”

  The maid said something else.

  Trent smiled and nodded. “Sí.”

  Sabrina said, “Sí?”

  “She asked if we’d like to come in for a cold drink.”

  Oh, she’d like to go in, all right. She’d like a bit of a look at Pierre’s “winter” house to see what else he was hiding from her.

  “Sí. I’d like to come in.”

  The maid held open the door. Trent motioned for Sabrina to enter first. She stepped into a glamorous entryway with a huge chandelier and shiny black-and-white tiles arranged like a checkerboard.

  The maid directed them to a room with the same flooring as the foyer. The far wall was a bank of windows that provided a stunning view of grass and trees growing against the backdrop of the mountains. A piano sat in front of the windows with a tall table, about bar height, against the wall by the door, but otherwise the room was empty.

  Trent said, “Wow. I wonder how much it would take to get him to sell this place.”

  “Shut up.”

  He winced. “Sorry. I know you thought he was a struggling artist. And he might be.” He brightened. “He could have inherited this ranch and be really grateful to his dead relative because he’s not making enough from his art to support himself.”

  “Don’t defend him.”

  The maid returned with a pitcher of something that looked like lemonade and two glasses.

  Trent thanked her, then added another line that caused the dark-haired woman to nod and scamper away.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I asked her to give us a few minutes.”

  “For what? To see how wealthy my struggling artist ex-boyfriend really is?”

  “More like to let all this sink in.”

  “You mean the fact that he lied?”

  He sniffed a laugh. “I thought you’d say something like he withheld information.”

  “You thought I’d defend him?”

  “I thought you’d split hairs. It seems to be how you comfort yourself.”

  The maid returned, talking a mile a minute as she pointed at her phone.

  Trent said, “Something’s come up. She has to go. She said she shouldn’t have let us in at all, but she recognized you from the picture on the piano and knew you must be a friend of Pierre’s.”

  “The picture on the piano?” Sabrina walked over and found an eight-by-ten picture of herself—a candid shot, not something professional—framed in wood among a group of pictures. “Oh.”

  The simplicity of it made her breath catch.

  “Don’t go all mushy on the guy.”

  Her gaze snapped up. “All mushy?” She laughed. “No. Oh, no. I’m just a bit confused. Pierre’s passionate, but not sentimental.” She pointed at the group of pictures of people who had to be friends. “All this doesn’t add up. He had money but never picked up a check.”

  “Because he was a cheapskate?” Trent suggested sarcastically.

  She shook her head. “I think it was more about him maintaining an image. I thought he was a starving artist. Maybe he wanted to perpetuate that impression?”

  “And now you’re back to splitting hairs.” He quickly downed his lemonade then angled his chin at the maid, who stood wringing her hands. “Let’s go.”

  Sabrina headed toward the door, but the maid stopped them. Her dark eyes softened. She said something that ended in Italy.

  Trent nodded and ushered Sabrina through the foyer and out the door. It wasn’t until they were in the car that Sabrina said, “He’s in Italy, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “The man does travel.”

  Trent laughed as he started the engine. “She said if we go to his website, we’ll see the address of the gallery where he has his showing.”

  She let all this new information about Pierre flow through her. Now that she’d wrangled her temper into submission, she reminded herself that they’d had a passionate but surface relationship. She could also understand why he’d withheld things. Neither had committed fully to the relationship. That was their deal.

  “I don’t blame you if you’re angry.”

  “Actually, I’m not angry. I’m thinking. The bottom line is, Pierre hadn’t told me everything about his life, even though I’d told him everything about mine.”

  He cut her the side eye. “Which is why you have a right to be mad.”

  “No. I told him everything about myself to explain why I didn’t want anything from him but a nice, passionate fling. Part of the way he’d complied was to not tell me anything about himself.”

  He groaned. “Oh, my God. You’ve gone from splitting hairs to defending him.”

  “No. I’m understanding him.”

  Trent shook his head. “You are the strangest woman.”

  “No, I’m not. Lots of women are logical.”

  “Haven’t you ever just wanted to let go?”

  Had he missed the part where she’d kept her finger on Pierre’s doorbell?

  She glanced at him. With his attention fixed on the road, she could take a minute to study his perfect nose, high cheekbones, curly black hair. She had wanted to let go the night before. She had wanted to kiss Trent and just let whatever happened happen.

  But being with someone like him was the opposite of how she’d spent her entire life. Protecting herself.

  Trent Sigmund would entertain her, amuse her, treat her like a princess, make love like a desperate man one minute and a smitten man the next...and he’d disappear as quickly and easily as he’d entered her life. Because he didn’t commit. The man didn’t even have a picture in his Barcelona condo. And then she’d be hurt.

  She had no feelings of pain because of Pierre. Sure, she’d been lonely. And seeing his extravagant home in Spain—and working ranch that probably netted him a boatload of cash every year—had been enough of a shock to boil her blood.

  But she wasn’t hurt.

  Pierre did not have the power to hurt her because she’d kept her emotions out of their fling.

  “Did you know my mom was crazy-mad in love with my dad?”

  He stole a quick peek at her. “No.”

  “My dad blew into my mom’s life like a hurricane. She wasn’t wealthy, but she was beautiful, and she knew it. She’d thought that her beauty had gotten her the love of a wealthy, sophisticated man, and she felt like she’d won the lottery because he hadn’t just been swept away by her. She’d been swept away by him. He spoiled her, ravaged her, bought her things, was good to her family.”

  “And when they got married, all that went away?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. Except she still loved him.”

  “How could she love him after all the things he did to your brothers?”

  She shrugged. “By the time he started bullying my brothers, her love had faded. But he threatened to use his money and power to take us away from her if she filed for divorce. She knew the only way she could protect us would be to stay married to him.”

  He shook his head. “Wow.”

  “That’s what love does to people. That’s the real result of letting go. And I will never—never ever—set myself up for any of that. Maybe, in a way, Pierre just proved himself to be like my dad, too.”

  Trent’s eyes snapped to hers. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, but he did prove he can’t be honest about money.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  TRENT STARED AT her for a few seconds. They’d begun this journey with him not exactly rooting for Pierre, but at least hoping that she would let Pierre into their child’s life. He still wanted her baby to know his dad, but he didn’t agree that Pierre couldn’t be honest about money. He thought the guy was a cheapskate.

  But hearing her story about her parents, knowing she’d lived a difficult life when her dad was around, he suddenly understood why she wore stuffy suits and conservative cocktail dresses.

  In a way, he also understood why the Sally McMillan pseudonym worked so well for her.

  She was so afraid of life and love, afraid of getting close to someone, so afraid of getting hurt, that she downplayed her assets, dated a guy she knew she’d never fall for and wouldn’t even consider being herself because she was protecting herself.

  And he didn’t blame her. He protected himself, too. His public appearances were few and far between—all so he could remain anonymous and be able to go to a restaurant or coffee shop without being mobbed.

  He drove down the lane and turned to the right to make the return trip to the airstrip. “At least we packed and don’t have to stop in Barcelona for our things.”

  She smiled.