Page 8 of Cinderella's One-Night Baby

‘Excuse me,’ the woman in question said archly, ‘but I am here, you know.’

Sophia was immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Gabrielle. I’m just incredibly excited for you.’

The pillowy lips covered in a sheen of red lipstick tugged into a smile. ‘Apology accepted.’ Then dark brown eyes accentuated by subtle, smoky makeup, locked onto his. ‘As for you, Mr Morato, please remember that I am a human being and treat me as such.’

If she hadn’t delivered her warning—and it was a warning—with a dry wryness, he would have taken offence at the implication that he would treat her as less than human if not reminded.

He’d have taken offence when the truth was Gabrielle was right, just as she’d been right to call him out earlier as a spoilt brat. She was setting her stall out early on how she expected to be treated and he could only respect her for it, respect her honesty; an honesty missing from the yes-men and -women he surrounded himself with. He’d been thinking about that when getting ready that evening and the tailor he’d used since he’d first earned enough to buy a fitted suit had been his usual deferential self. Because he hadn’t always been deferential. When Andrés had first stepped into his tailor’s shop over a decade ago, he’d been treated with politeness but there had been no reverence. That had only come about as his wealth and power had increased. It had happened in tiny increments, and not just with his tailor but everyone, staff, friends, acquaintances and lovers. They’d become nodding dogs only saying what they thought he wanted to hear.

Staring down into eyes that stared back with actual challenge and which grew more stunning the more he looked, he gave a half smile. ‘Any more instructions before we leave, Miss Breton? Or is it enough that I promise not to act like a spoilt brat and promise to treat you as a human?’

Her cheeks sucked in as if she were suppressing laughter. ‘A promise to give me a crash course in palace etiquette on the drive there would be helpful.’

Sophia waved them off.

After seeing Gabrielle into the limousine, Andrés turned to his sister and hissed, ‘You were damned well faking that illness. Don’t deny it.’

She gave a beatific smile. ‘I can deny whatever I like. Whatyoucan’t deny is the spark between you. She’s great.’

He glared at her.

‘Andrés, she made you laugh. After the last couple of weeks you’ve had, you deserve some fun, and something tells me you’ll have a lot more fun with Gabrielle than with me.’

If time wasn’t so tight, he’d give his interfering sister a piece of his mind. He settled on another glare.

She waved cheerfully.

Setting off, he scrutinised the woman his sister had manipulated into taking as his replacement. Was she in on Sophia’s Machiavellian plot? While he’d been learning from his lawyer that the world as he knew it hadn’t ended after all, Sophia and Gabrielle had been chatting away like old friends.

It was the lack of guile in the returning stare, followed by her, ‘Well come on then, palace etiquette. Unless you want me to embarrass you, tell meeverything,’ that sealed it for him.

‘If in doubt, watch what I do and copy me, and you’re going to make the muscles in your neck stiff if you don’t relax.’

Gabrielle, who’d been listening intently to Andrés’s rapidly delivered condensed palace etiquette tutorial, gave a surprised snigger. ‘How can I relax in this thing? I’m frightened to touch anything in case I leave a mark.’

The car they were being chauffeured to the palace in was of a breed she was so used to seeing in the principality that she never even registered them other than to hope the gleaming monsters didn’t knock her off her bicycle. The interior was as vast as she’d expected, smelling of leather and so shiny and sparkly that she could easily imagine being beamed up into space in it.

In answer, Andrés spread his hands and shrugged. ‘It is a car, not a museum. Any marks will be cleaned.’

She’d never known people could live in such spotless fashion. His apartment had been just as immaculate as his car, not a speck of dust on any of the polished surfaces. No doubt he had a hidden army of minions emerging to spot clean the second a crumb was dropped. Andrés was immaculate too, from the perfectly quiffed black hair and the perfectly groomed thick black eyebrows to the perfectly trimmed thick black beard. Even his nails were buffed and trimmed to perfection. She’d guess no one had ever thought it necessary to order him to use a nail brush to scrub grime out from them. But then, she doubted he’d ever done a physical day’s work in his life. She wondered if he worked out with people hovering beside him to wipe any sweat that dared pop out on his forehead.

There was a clear glass partition between them and the driver, but it had still been a relief that Andrés had kept close to the car door, legs stretched out, clearly making an effort to ensure distance and appear unthreatening despite his huge frame. What was less a relief was having to make a conscious effort not to stare at him. This was on top of dealing with the shame of her reaction to seeing him in his tuxedo. It had been a physical reaction her brain had had no control over and the only excuse she could come up with was that any woman would have looked at Andrés Morato filling a black tuxedo with a velvet lapel and sighed with pleasure. She guessed Sophia was too inured to the sight to bother sighing, not even an admiring glance of appreciation. Her attention had been all on Gabrielle, and it had been Gabrielle to whom she’d given the biggest embrace goodbye. Her lips had hardly grazed her husband’s cheek when she’d seen them off into the limo. But then, Sophia was as beautiful as Andrés was handsome. She must be really secure in their marriage not to have any qualms about him spending the evening with another woman, even if that woman was a plain border guard with a small child, who needed an army of people working in tandem to make her presentable.

‘What are you going to say when people ask why you’re attending the party with someone who isn’t your wife?’

His forehead creased with confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Sophia.’

His face contorted with what could only be described as grossed-out horror. ‘Sophia isn’t my wife. Sophia is mysister.’

Her heart slammed into her ribs. ‘Your sister?’

‘My sister.’

‘But your surnames...’

The horror was replaced with disbelief. ‘You speak my language better than most native speakers and deal with my compatriots every day at your border, and you don’t know Spanish women keep their own names when they marry?’

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