Page 6 of Cinderella's One-Night Baby

Striving to keep her professional face in place, she looked into Andrés’s black eyes, so hypnotic that even if he wasn’t married she’d be having to fight to stop herself from falling into them. ‘If I agree...’

He nodded encouragingly, smugness already spreading over his handsome face at what would have been, to his mind, a foregone conclusion.

‘IfI agree then which Andrés Morato will I be accompanying? The spoilt brat or the less spoilt brat? Because if it’s the spoilt brat I think I’ll give it a miss.’

The smugness evaporated. His expression could only be described as gobsmacked.

The moment Gabrielle agreed to the outrageous suggestion, things moved terrifyingly fast. Refusing the Moratos’ offer to drive her to their apartment—not only was it quicker for her to cycle but the back seat of their car was so cramped that even little old her would struggle to fit in it—she allowed herself to be talked into going straight to their apartment rather than returning to her own for essentials. Everything she needed, they assured her, would be provided.

A ten-minute bike ride later, during which she called her mother to check in on Lucas and fill her in on everything, and Gabrielle looked at the huge gold doors of the Imperium, one of Monte Cleure’s most magnificent apartment blocks, and shook her head in wonder. She’d cycled past this building twice a day, four days a week for the last year, passed it numerous times in the twenty-two years before that, and never had it crossed her mind that one day she would be invited inside.

A man in a professional suit appeared like an apparition. ‘Ms Breton?’

She nodded. No point asking how he knew. Her uniform was a dead giveaway. At least this meant Andrés hadn’t changed his mind. It had been patently obvious from his shocked reaction to her calling him a spoilt brat that no one had called him anything insulting in a long, long time, and though he’d broken the stunned silence with laughter, she’d wondered if she’d arrive at his apartment and be given a curt note and a banning order forbidding her from entering the building.

‘I’m Bernard, the Imperium’s concierge. Allow Pierre to take your bicycle. I will show you to Mr Morato’s apartment. He arrived three minutes ago.’

She assumed Pierre was the gangly teenager standing behind him. ‘Thank you... Where will you put my bike?’

‘It will be kept in storage until you or Mr Morato request it.’

‘You will look after it, won’t you?’ she asked the teenager anxiously. She couldn’t afford a replacement.

After assurances were made, Gabrielle was swept into a gorgeous atrium that reminded her of the seven-star hotel casino she’d briefly worked weekends at as a croupier when she turned eighteen. Her border guard uniform made her feel decidedly unsophisticated and out of place, and she self-consciously smoothed the strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail and tried not to tread so heavily in her clumpy boots. Not that her own clothes would make her feel any less frumpy and out of place.

Led into a mirrored elevator with sink-your-toes-in maroon carpet and an armchair for the lazy, and which had two non-emergency buttons: up and down, Bernard doffed his hat again as the door closed on her. A short, silent ride later and the door slid open into a small room with marble floors, a small marble desk and one door. Next to the door was a security box. It was while she was peering at the box wondering which button she needed to press that the door opened.

Andrés, shirt buttons undone revealing a muscular chest with a healthy smattering of black hair covering it, greeted her with a dazzling smile that revealed dazzlingly white, straight teeth and an outstretched hand. ‘I was afraid you might have changed your mind. Forgive my state of undress but my tailor is about to make last-minute adjustments to my tuxedo.’

Not knowing where to put her eyes, aware of heated colour staining her cheeks, it took a beat longer than was polite to realise she was supposed to shake the outstretched hand. Painfully aware her own hands were filthy with oil and grime, the need for speed meaning she’d bypassed her usual end-of-shift hand-wash, Gabrielle gave it the quickest, lightest shake she could get away with. Except Andrés had other ideas, firmly wrapping his fingers around it and clasping his other hand to it, flooding skin that hadn’t been cold with tingling warmth. His hands were so big compared to hers that it was like being engulfed by an oversized bear. ‘Thank you for agreeing to this. I am in your debt.’

Releasing her hand with the same nonchalance with which he’d clasped it, he stepped to one side and waved a hand for her to enter. ‘Please, come in.’

Absently rubbing her still-tingling hand, Gabrielle entered an apartment that made her feel so insignificant and self-conscious that if the door hadn’t closed behind her, she’d have bolted.

She’d been born in Monte Cleure. The district she’d been raised in and still lived in was a tiny dot in the landscape, an anomaly compared to the grandeur the rest of their citizens lived in. Her district was protected from the bulldozers for redevelopment only because it provided the staff who worked on the yachts, in the hotels, in the penthouses, in the palace, kept law and order, and nursed people when they were sick. She’d spent her whole life in the principality she called home and she had never, until this moment, entered the home of someone outside her own district.

Too busy gawping at the gorgeous living space she’d been ushered into that in itself was twice the size of her whole apartment, taking in the multiple high sash windows, the luxurious furnishings and exquisite modern art works, she failed to notice Sophia until she was right in front of her. ‘Let me introduce you to your team,’ she said, taking Gabrielle’s hand.

‘One minute,’ Andrés interrupted. ‘The NDA needs to be signed first.’

That would be the non-disclosure agreement briefly discussed as they left the border force office. Anddiscussedwas a loose term for Andrés calling out as he strode to his car that he’d have one drawn up and ready for her to sign when she arrived at his apartment.

A pencil-thin man in a business suit appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and handed her a tablet. ‘Input your details, then read the contents and sign.’

‘I need to get on. Any problems, Gino can handle it,’ Andrés said before disappearing through an archway.

More than a little dazed, Gabrielle did as Gino, who she assumed was Andrés’s lawyer, instructed. Her details inputted, the agreement itself appeared on the screen. The language used was clear enough. Signing meant she promised not to disclose any personal details about Andrés, his home or any conversation she was privy to with him and any guest at the party, including any conversations overheard. Compared to the NDA Eloise had been tricked into signing, it wasn’t particularly onerous and didn’t forbid Gabrielle from talking about the party itself. Also, the reasons for signing it were completely different to Eloise’s situation, so she swallowed her misgivings and signed the box indicated with her finger.

No sooner had she passed the tablet back to the lawyer than Sophia snatched hold of Gabrielle’s hand and dragged her off through the same tall, wide arch Andrés had vanished through. It led into a small corridor with three doors. She opened the furthest one, plunging Gabrielle into the most stunning bedroom she’d ever seen. More than a bedroom. More like the suites found in Monte Cleure’s finest hotels used exclusively by their wealthiest guests, but with a real feminine tone to it. The huge sleigh bed only took a fraction of the space. Waiting for her were five ultra-stylish women.

‘Ladies,’ said Sophia, ‘meet Gabrielle. I need you to work your magic on her.’

For a good minute, the five women did nothing but stare critically at her. And then they swooped.

First she was ushered into an ultra-modern bathroom with a walk-in shower you could party in.

‘Shampoo your hair and then use this,’ the tallest of the women said, pressing a small tube into her hand. ‘Keep it in for two minutes before rinsing. When you’re showered, wrap your wet hair in a towel for no longer than thirty seconds. Time is of the essence—be finished in ten minutes. Make sure to use the nail brush.’

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