The Queen's Baby Scandal Read online

  One night at the Italian’s ball...

  has permanent consequences!

  Mauro Bianchi is stunned to discover the beautiful innocent who left his bed at midnight three months ago is a queen...and she’s pregnant! He’s never wanted a family, but nothing will stop this billionaire from claiming his heir.

  Queen Astrid can’t forget the pleasure of Mauro’s touch, despite her scandalous royal bombshell! To protect her throne, she is determined to raise her baby alone. Only now Mauro’s back, his powerful presence a constant reminder of their chemistry. And he has a demand: “I want my child.”

  “I will not be managed. I want nothing less than what I have demanded. I want my child.”

  “Why?”

  “Because as a boy I sat back and watched my father live in excess while my mother cleaned his house. A man with money who does not care for his own is not a man at all. He is weak. Vile. The lowest form of being to ever walk the earth. If indeed you can call what he does walking. He would be better suited to crawling on his belly. I am not that man. And I will be damned if I will allow you to manipulate me. To think that I can be bought.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest shared custody, my queen. But I imagine that’s going to damage the optics of your little kingdom.”

  Astrid blinked, not entirely certain how that would work. “There is no way that I can do that. You have to either be out of the picture entirely, the secret to the world, or you must...” Her stomach rolled. “You would have to marry me.”

  One Night With Consequences

  When one night...leads to pregnancy!

  When succumbing to a night of unbridled desire, it’s impossible to think past the morning after!

  But with the sheets barely settled, that little blue line appears on the pregnancy test, and it doesn’t take long to realize that one night of white-hot passion has turned into a lifetime of consequences!

  Only one question remains:

  How do you tell a man you’ve just met that you’re about to share more than just his bed?

  Find out in:

  His Two Royal Secrets

  by Caitlin Crews

  The Argentinian’s Baby of Scandal

  by Sharon Kendrick

  His Cinderella’s One-Night Heir

  by Lynne Graham

  The Sicilian’s Surprise Love-Child

  by Carol Marinelli

  Bound by Their Nine-Month Scandal

  by Dani Collins

  Look for more One Night With Consequences stories coming soon!

  Maisey Yates

  The Queen’s Baby Scandal

  Maisey Yates is a New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy-five romance novels. She has a coffee habit she has no interest in kicking and a slight Pinterest addiction. She lives with her husband and children in the Pacific Northwest. When Maisey isn’t writing, she can be found singing in the grocery store, shopping for shoes online and probably not doing dishes. Check out her website, maiseyyates.com.

  Books by Maisey Yates

  Harlequin Presents

  The Greek’s Nine-Month Redemption

  Carides’s Forgotten Wife

  His Forbidden Pregnant Princess

  Brides of Innocence

  The Spaniard’s Untouched Bride

  The Spaniard’s Stolen Bride

  Heirs Before Vows

  The Spaniard’s Pregnant Bride

  The Prince’s Pregnant Mistress

  The Italian’s Pregnant Virgin

  Once Upon a Seduction...

  The Prince’s Captive Virgin

  The Prince’s Stolen Virgin

  The Italian’s Pregnant Prisoner

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  To Jackie, Megan, Nicole and Rusty. Finding true friends who understand you, relate to you, make you laugh and even try to politely respond to the one hundred raccoon pictures you send them a day is a rare thing. I think it might even be magic. Thank you for being my friends.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM PROOF OF THEIR ONE-NIGHT PASSION BY LOUISE FULLER

  CHAPTER ONE

  QUEEN ASTRID VON BJORNLAND had never been to a club before. But she was reasonably familiar with the layout of the Ice Palace, nestled in the Italian Alps, hidden away from commoners and social riffraff—as defined by Mauro Bianchi, the billionaire owner of the establishment—in spite of the fact that it was a place she’d never before visited.

  She and Latika had done an intense amount of research on the subject prior to hatching their plan, and image searches of the facility itself had been involved. Though, the findings had been sparse.

  Mauro was intensely protective of the image of the club as exclusive. And the only photographs that existed were photographs that had been officially sanctioned by Mauro himself, and included only the main areas, and none of the VIP locations that the many articles Astrid had read stated were stationed throughout the club.

  Her palms were sweaty, but she knew that the invitation that she held in her hand was good enough.

  Latika had assured her of that. And Latika was never wrong.

  When Astrid had been looking to hire an assistant the year before her father had passed, she’d made discreet inquiries among the circle of dignitaries and royalty she knew, and Latika had appeared the next day. Polished, sleek and just a bit too good to be true.

  It hadn’t taken long for Astrid to realize Latika was hiding something.

  “I had to get away from my father. He’s a very rich man, and looking to consolidate that wealth by marrying me off to a man who is... He’s not a good man. I will need to stay out of the spotlight completely. So all of my work will be done quietly, efficiently and with me out of the picture.”

  That was all Astrid had needed to hear. She knew all about the looming specter of potential arranged marriages and overly controlling fathers.

  And so, she had hired Latika on the spot.

  She was a whiz of an assistant—and had become an even better friend, and ally—and able to conjure up near magic with the snap of her fingers. In this case, magic had included: an excuse for Astrid to go to Italy, a car rented on the sly, an extravagant and extravagantly skimpy designer dress, jewels and shoes, and a near impossible invitation to the party.

  And now Astrid was standing and waiting behind the thick velvet rope, in line, for entry.

  Astrid had never waited in a line before. Not once in her life.

  Astrid had never waited full stop.

  She had been born five minutes before her twin brother, Prince Gunnar, much to the dismay of her father and the entire house of nobility. And that had essentially set the tone for her entire life.

  A tone that had led to this particular plan, as dangerous, unlikely and foolhardy as it was.

  All of those adjectives had belonged to Latika. Who had scolded Astrid the entire time she had aided her in putting the plan together.

  Latika had many opinions, but none of them really mattered. Both in terms of what she would help Astrid
accomplish, and in terms of what Astrid would choose to do. She would make happen whatever Astrid asked her to make happen. And that was the simple truth of it.

  Astrid tugged at the hem of her impossibly short white dress. It was daring, and nothing like she would wear in her real life, but that had been part of the plan.

  She could not look like Queen Astrid. If her brother found out, he would come down to the club and physically drag her out. Not to mention if any of the various government officials found out, they would do the same.

  But she was doing what had to be done to wrest control of her kingdom into her own hands. Control of her future.

  She would find other ways if need be, but this plan had come together with so much expert timing that Astrid was willing to chance it for several reasons.

  And, she had been willing to wear a gown that was essentially a suit jacket with nothing beneath it. The neckline gaped, showing curves and angles of her body she normally kept well hidden.

  Her red hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, and she was wearing a single, long emerald on a chain, which swayed perilously between her cleavage and made her feel like she was drawing attention.

  Of course, if she wasn’t drawing attention to her cleavage, then she was calling attention to her legs, with that abbreviated hemline in the sky-high heels. And perhaps her rear, where she knew the white dress clung with a kind of saucy cheekiness. At least, that was what Latika had told her.

  But the final thing that Latika had said to her as she had dropped her in front of the queue for the club was that she absolutely had to be back out at the curb by two in the morning.

  The timing was essential, and if she missed the timing at all, not only could the plan be in jeopardy, but Latika’s job certainly would be. And by extension possibly Latika herself, given that her position at the palace had been insulation for her for the past three years.

  Astrid was the figurehead for her country. And she had power, it was true. But her father’s antiquated board, along with the elected government, had authority and if something was ever put to a vote, whether it be a member of staff or law, then Astrid would be outweighed. It would be thus, she had been assured, even if Gunnar had been made king. Even if he were not born five minutes after his sister.

  Though, Astrid was not convinced of this.

  And she had found a loophole. And that loophole was why she was here.

  It certainly had nothing to do with Mauro Bianchi. Not in the personal sense. She didn’t even know the man, after all. But she knew about him. Everyone did. A self-made billionaire who had risen up from abject poverty thanks to his grit and determination.

  In Astrid’s opinion, had this been the Middle Ages, he would have been a marauding conqueror. And as she was dealing with arcane laws more firmly in the Middle Ages than in the modern era, that had only made him all the more attractive to her as she set about hatching her plan.

  She took a step forward in line as all of the people shuffled upward, and she found herself facing a large, grim-looking bouncer with a pronounced scar running across the length of his face.

  She squared her shoulders, and then, changed tactics. She arched her breasts outward instead, and rather than affecting her typical severe glance, she went with a pout, just as she and Latika had been practicing in her hotel room tonight before they had gone out.

  “Here is my invitation,” she said, somehow feeling like she hadn’t quite gotten down the simper that the other women in the line had thrown out when they had presented their invitations to the bouncer.

  But it didn’t matter. The invitation—while for a person who didn’t exist—was for the person she was playing, and it was legitimate.

  “Of course,” he said, looking her over, something he did in his gaze that Astrid had never had directed at her before. “Enjoy the party, Ms. Steele.”

  He kept the card firmly in his hand, and ushered her inside.

  It was a strange and wondrous place, some rooms carved entirely of ice, and requiring coats for entry, others fashioned of steel and glittering lights, everything fading into each other like a twisting, glittering paradise.

  Astrid had grown up surrounded by luxury. But it was not a modern luxury. Not in the least. It was velvet and drapes, gold and ornate wrought iron. Cold marble and granite.

  This was color, twisted metal and light. Fire and ice all melded together in an escape for the senses that verged on decadent.

  There was a dance floor that was suspended up above a carved icy chamber. It glittered and twisted, casting refracted light all around. Railings around the outside of the platform prevented the revelers from falling below. She had never seen anything quite like it.

  It was like something from a dream. Or a fairy tale.

  If fairy tales contained house music.

  And for the first time, a slight thrill went through her.

  She had come about this entire plan with the grimness of a general going to war.

  At least, that was what she had told herself. She had told herself that it had nothing to do with the fact that she wanted one night of freedom.

  Had told herself that Mauro Bianchi had not been her target because he was attractive. Because he had a reputation for showing women the kinds of pleasure that was normally found only in books. No.

  She had told herself that he was a strategic target.

  A man with no royal connection or blood, which would make the claiming of her position even more unquestionable. Had told herself that a known playboy was sensible because as an unpracticed seductress, she would need a target that would have very low resistance.

  Because she knew where to find him.

  She had told herself all of those things, and the more she had read articles about him, the more she had seen images of him, his face, his body, the dark tattoos that covered his skin...

  She had told herself that none of that mattered. That his beauty was secondary, and indeed only a perk in that it was a genetic point of desirability.

  But now that she was here... Now that she was here in this club with dance music wrapping itself around her skin, and the thrill of her deceit rocketing through her like adrenaline, a smile spread across her lips.

  Freedom.

  This was a moment of freedom. A moment to last a lifetime.

  Yes, she was doing this to claim the maximum amount of freedom a woman in her position ever could. But even so, she would go back to her life of service when all this was said and done. But this... This was a moment out of time.

  Not a moment to think about the future. Of what it would be like to finally have the power over her country she deserved. To finally get out of her father’s stranglehold. Not a moment to ponder how the ache of loneliness she felt inside might finally be assuaged by holding a child of her own. A child she would love no matter what.

  She was Alice, through a looking glass. Not Astrid.

  And she was going to seduce a man for the first time in her life. Possibly the last.

  All she had to do was find him. And then she saw him, there could be no mistaking him. He was up on a platform above the dance floor, surveying the party below. It could be only him. That dark, enigmatic gaze rolling over the crowd with an air of unquestionable authority.

  Astrid was royalty in Bjornland. She was the queen.

  But there was no mistaking that here in this club, Mauro Bianchi was king.

  The king of sin, of vice, of pleasure.

  The kind of king who would never be welcome in a state and steady nation such as hers. But the perfect king for tonight.

  She took a breath and made her way over to the stairs, thanking a lifetime of deportment for her ability to climb them with ease even in those spiked, crystal heels she had on her feet. She let her fingers drift along the rail in a seductive manner, the kind that she had been warned against as a girl. She ha
d been taught to convey herself as cool. Sexless, really.

  She was the first female monarch in Bjornland since the 1500s. The weight of the crown for her could never have been anything but heavy.

  Her father had ever been resentful of the fact that it was the daughter who had been born first. Resentful. Distrustful. Doubtful.

  But her mother... It was her mother who had made absolutely certain that there would be no creative shifting of birth orders.

  Astrid had been born first. And her mother had had the announcement issued with speed and finality.

  Her mother had also made sure that Astrid’s education had been complete. That she had been trained in the art of war. Not just the kind found on the battlefield, but the kind she would face in any and all political arenas.

  There was a ruthlessness, her mother had told her, to all rulers. And a queen would need to hone her ruthlessness to a razor-sharp point, and wield it with more exacting brutality than any king.

  And so she had been instructed on how to hold herself, how to be beautiful, without being sexual.

  She was throwing all of it away right in that moment. Allowing her hips to sway, allowing her fingertips to caress the railing like she might a lover.

  She had never had a lover.

  But it was the aim of tonight.

  And so, she could forget everything she had learned, or rather, could turn it upside down in this place that was like a mirror of her normal life.

  That was how she felt. As if she’d stepped through the looking glass. As if she was on the other side of wealth and beauty. Not the weighted, austere version, but this frivolous palace made of ice. Transient and decadent. For no purpose other than pleasure.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and the moment she stepped onto the dance floor, she looked up.

  Her eyes collided with his.

  He saw her. He more than saw her.

  It was as if there was an electric current in the air.

  And so she did something she would have never done on any other day when her eyes connected with a strange man’s from across the room.