Chapter 3

I am sufficiently mind blown. And yet…

“How so?” I find myself asking, riveted once again. Intrigued. Swept away.

“There’s something I want,” Nick Angelini tells me, intriguing me further. “Something I’ve wanted for some time that I can’t quite wrap my hands around. No matter what angle I take, as soon as I’m close to securing this one thing that eludes me, it slips through my fingers. So I need a different course of action, a different approach. This is it.”

I stare a bit harder at him. “You’ve lost me. What is it that you want, Mr. Angelini?”

More accurately, what could this man possibly desire that he can’t simply procure for himself?

Surely, he has the means for even his wildest ventures.

“It’s Nick, remember?” he murmurs, his grey-green irises shimmering in the golden light. Seducing me even more.

“Sure. Nick.”

I like his name on my tongue.

I especially like how he gazes so intently, so heatedly at me.

I’m about to press him more deeply as to what it is that he’s in search of.

But he beats me to the punch.

“I have a proposal for you, Bailey Storm.” His piercing gaze does not waver. “I want a child.”

He does not flinch.

“A royal heir,” he continues. “I want you to give me one.”

He’s dead serious.

I’m not even halfway through my second glass of champagne, so I know I’m not drunk.

I am so not drunk.

And yet…

“I didn’t quite hear you correctly,” I wispily mutter as my head spins and my heart nearly stops.

He smiles. “I think you heard me quite clearly.” His gorgeous eyes are penetrating, glowing mystically.

Enthralling me.

Challenging me.

I try to see past them, to latch onto something cogent and reasonable.

I fail miserably.

“I… I don’t understand.” I slowly shake my head.

“It’s simple, really.” He takes another drink, still staring intently at me in a scintillating way, the inherent sparkle taunting me. “I come from a long line of kings and queens. I happen to be in-wait for the throne. That wait is, sadly—because I love my father dearly—soon to be over.”

I gasp.

There is an odd seizing of my heart.

The man’s losing his father.

I know exactly how excruciating that is.

It takes me a few seconds to come around. I earnestly tell him, “I’m so sorry for you.”

Unfortunately, I can’t travel this emotional path at the moment. I’ll get too twisted up in what I went through when my dad was ill and there were prescriptions to fill and bills to pay. When he needed reassurance that he’d be okay, which I couldn’t give him. And when he’d tried to provide reassurance that I’d be okay…which he couldn’t fully give me.

The pain of those recollections is so prickly, I’ll be coiled in thorns any second now if I allow my mind to stay on this track.

So I derail my brain and stick to what Nick imparted prior to the dismal news about his father.

I latch onto something significant. Something that can neither be ignored nor discounted.

“Did you say…kings and queens?” I query.

Nick Angelini crooks a brow but says nothing, letting me process all of this.

He thinks I’m solely fixated on the royalty aspect of this conversation. And I clearly ought to be. I want to take him seriously, I do. He is a very serious man.

A highly sophisticated, refined, intelligent-looking man.

Who has just laid a fairy tale label on the table that a woman such as myself, who comes from a wretched hellscape, cannot comprehend, let alone believe in.

Plus, at the heart of this conversation, I’ve just made a mental correlation with him that involves a parent who is clearly ailing.

I have the overwhelming need to push back my chair, stand up, and walk away.

Why I can’t actually do those things is beyond me.

Perhaps it’s because he’s still staring unfalteringly at me that I remain rooted in my seat.

Since I can’t move, I speak. Though the best I manage in that vein is to say, “I’m not a Princess Diaries kind of a girl. It doesn’t fall into my belief system.”

He snickers, playfully. So that I can’t discern if he’s toying with me. Or if he’s earnest and is amused I can’t comprehend what he’s saying.

“What doesn’t fall into your belief system, Bailey? That royals exist? How do you explain Kate and William? I’d say Meghan and Harry, but they flew the coop, so I suppose they’re not the best of examples for the royal family as a whole or as a concept, and—”

“Where is this castle of yours?” I interject before he really gets rolling and I can’t find a single excuse not to take stock in this direction in which he’s headed.

“It’s not a castle, per se. I prefer the term palace. ‘Castle’ feels like a cold connotation. Whereas ‘palace’ is more elegant. Richly appointed. With—” He gives me a pointed look I feel straight to my soul. And everywhere else that has now become an erogenous zone. “A wine cellar you would, indeed, marvel over.”

He grins again.

I want to say I have faith in what he’s telling me.

That’s not what I say at all. Rather, out of my mouth comes: “Does this nation your family rules happen to be a small country located in Eastern Europe?”

I’m thinking Beautician and the Beast here.

His gaze narrows on me. He doesn’t get it. “Southern-Central Europe, actually. With influences from Spain, France, Switzerland, and Italy.”

That certainly explains some of the lush accents rolled into one that I’ve detected—making him sound like a citizen of the world.

I’m just not quite capable of buying into the fairy tale.

He senses this. And snaps a finger.

Bodyguard #1 steps forward and produces a passport for ID verification. But anyone can manufacture that, and Nick Angelini knows it. So he offers other “official” documents and web links and says, “Feel free to do your research on me. It’s perfectly reasonable. I’ve already looked into your background.”

Now I outright blanch.

He says, “You graduated Valedictorian of a private school in San Francisco.”

The only kind thing my mother ever did for me was to send me to that school, outside of my district. With her new husband’s money, of course.

Nick continues. “You graduated college with honors, a double major, and an additional study emphasis—along with numerous job offers. Your accolades from that institution are impressive, as are all the mentions of you in restaurant reviews.”

He frowns suddenly and my stomach plummets. I’m not sure why, other than, evidently this man’s opinion of me matters to me. I can’t explain why.

“You shouldn’t have your name attached to one-star reviews, Miss Storm.”

“Right. Sure. Except… I happen to like this small, coastal town. I love this cove and the views. I can’t really afford to live here, but I’m willing to make concessions.”

This has him perking up.

“That’s precisely what I was hoping you would say. What you’re in need of is cash flow. What I’m in need of is a surrogate. For the royal heir,” he repeats.

He rests an elbow on the table between us. Leans forward. Stares into my eyes again as he slowly extends his hand toward me and his fingertips graze my temple while he brushes away a plump, blonde curl that’s escaped my low ponytail.

My breath catches in my throat. My nipples tighten behind the cups of my bra. My skin tingles.

I don’t even blink as he murmurs in his sensual tone, “Would you like to hear what I’m prepared to offer you, Bailey, in order for us to both get what we want?”

I’m speechless.

I can’t move a muscle.

This can’t possibly be happening.

The ideation of “surrogate” aside, I’m not in denial over what he’s saying to me, because—in all honesty—I’m not fully buying his I’ll make all your dreams come true vow in the first place.

It’s not that I doubt the man, per se.

It’s that… I’m a realist.

No one just swoops in, out of the blue, claiming to be of royal blood and saying they can give you everything your heart desires.

And yet here’s the kicker.

Nick Angelini does not appear to be just any man.

He looks royal.

He smells royal.

He oozes royal.

And he is not flinching or otherwise caving in any way.

He truly is serious. Severely so.

My eyes squeeze shut for a few moments as I try to reconcile all of this in my mind.

During that time, he quietly tells me, “Think about your entire life changing after nine months, Miss Storm.”

My eyes snap open.

“Please,” I say. Then I swallow hard as anxiety swells in my throat. “Don’t call me Miss Storm when you’re telling me you’re willing to pay me to be your surrogate.”

I need this to be a raw conversation. That won’t happen when he’s addressing me so formally.

And besides…

I liked it when he said my name.

He clearly comprehends all of this because his expression softens. His eyes are warmer. Yet there’s still a sense of intensity exuding from him that holds me hostage, keeping my breaths from returning to normal.

Nick Angelini has a commanding presence and a chiseled visage. He is, from head to toe…magnificent.

And that’s what makes it so difficult for me to extract myself from this discussion, from this incredibly bizarre situation, from this seat, in general.

His hand at my temple falls away and he sits back, though he regards me closely.

I’m staring at him in return, not the least bit cognizant of anything happening around us. Not that there actually is anything happening around us. The restaurant is tragically dead, even at night. Naturally, I can’t help but think that I might have the opportunity to alter that, to resuscitate this place.

And that’s just… One hell of a carrot to dangle in front of me.

Then there’s the man, himself. Aside from the alleged royalty aspect, he appears to be of sound mind and judgment.

He speaks articulately, he dresses impeccably, and he has not taken any sort of approach that would infer he considers me subservient, as though I’m only meant to be, essentially, an incubator, without having my own intellect or ambitions. Far from it. He’s been quite the gentleman thus far. Even quite personable.

I can still feel his fingers on my skin, and I want to feel them everywhere else. I want his hands on my body. I want his mouth on mine. I want to be naked with him.

That unto itself might just be enough to say yes to his proposal.

Except…

I’m certain this is to be a very clinical, borderline scientific experiment involving a womb with presumably healthy eggs…and a turkey baster. Or a petri dish. Whatever. I’m not well-versed in the theory or the reality of in vitro fertilization. Or any other medically supervised conception.

I try, however, to convince myself I won’t be as disappointed as I fear I’ll be if he tells me the “insert Tab A into Slot B” methodology really does involve the baster, rather than his penis.

But what am I thinking?!

I haven’t said yes. I can’t even conceive of saying yes!

And this is just… Too. Wild.

Yet, I want very much to let the movie reel play out. To hear his proposed conditions and to find them genuine and to think, hell… For the nine months out of my life that I grant to him, I will have an entire future laid out before me.

That’s a boggling concept. One that makes my pulse race as much as the man does.

Although…

I haven’t yet heard his offer.

Or those “conditions.” The strings.

And let’s face facts.

There are always strings attached.

Some not so desirable.

I would never give up my independence. And I most definitely am not the type to allow another human being to tell me what to do, when to do it, and how to do it.

Other than a boss, of course.

And perhaps that’s how this is to be viewed. As a job.

I don’t fucking know. This is still too new to me, and all the moving pieces are nowhere close to solidifying in my head.

I need to know what’s expected of me—even before I can acknowledge whether this is a legitimate “deal.”

I inhale deeply. On the exhale, I say, “Why would you need me for this endeavor?”

What else am I to call it, really?

He sips his champagne. Then he tells me, “I’ve not had much luck by way of romantic entanglements, Bailey. In some respects, that’s fine. I don’t need a wife or marriage. I rule a country. I control what happens there. What I can’t control, what I can’t rule, is a woman. I won’t force one to be at my beck and call, to fulfill every expectation I have, at the expense of her own wants and desires.”

Okay, those are all the right words.

As though he’s read my mind.

But let’s not go there. I still can’t get past the I rule a country comment to worry over whether he has psychic abilities as well.

Also, and quite interestingly, he seems at odds with his contention, causing me to speculate that he’s tried the relationship route previously, with disastrous results. His eyes even cloud for a moment.

I feel for him.

I can’t explain why, other than to say, here’s a man who wants a child, but he can’t find the right woman to settle down with, commit to, procreate with.

I don’t know precisely what I’m feeling, other than a peculiar tug, deep in my core.

Especially as he passionately avers, “More than that, I find that I don’t respect someone who simply placates me and follows my word without question. You have doubts. You have questions. I want you to have them.”

Be still my heart.

I actually have to resist the urge to pat my chest with my hand as the beats accelerate.

Rather, I manage to stay the course.

“I appreciate that you understand where I’m coming from,” I tell Nick. “Do you also understand this is highly unconventional?”

“How so?” he counters. “This is a common way for a man to produce an heir. Similar to a woman using a donor.”

He has me on that one. In spades.

He further expounds, “Bailey, this is a straightforward proposition.” His gaze is downright lethal, it’s so intimate. I can’t recall the last breath I’ve taken. “I’m impressed by your pedigree—your intellect, your ambition, your beauty, your unattachment to family or a lover. Also, your last name.”

Oh, damn it all to hell. Here’s my greatest secret.

But I refuse to get tangled up in that until I know more.

“Tell me exactly what your offer is.”

He leans in close again. Our eyes remain locked.

In his sexy, make-my-clit-tingle voice, he says, “I want to have dinner with you this evening, after the restaurant closes. Not here… I’ll send a car for you.”

Oh, my God. I’m instantly thinking of dark corners for dirty deeds. Or a huge bed for endless hours of lovemaking. Or—

“But first,” he says, crashing into my fantasy world, “I’m going to have Cristoff contact you. You know him. Have a video chat with him, and he’ll authenticate me and my proposal.

Despite the wicked images I conjure, involving those dark corners and that large bed, the streetwise cynic in me wants to contest Nick’s last comment, by mentally contending it’s possible he could’ve just paid off Cristoff to claim he knows Nick.

However, I sense that when I do my own research, I’m going to discover this man honestly does exist. That his country exists. That his royal credentials… Exist.

I don’t know what, for sure, has just convinced me he’s on the up and up. Perhaps it’s because he’s not the least bit defensive when it comes to insisting he is who he says he is. Maybe it’s because he fully grasps that I’m a woman who needs proof of life, so to speak, in an overwhelming and shocking situation such as this.

Possibly… It’s because I want to believe.

In him.

And in the fairy tale.