Fake Fiancée, Real Baby (Princes of Passion #3)

1. Adrien

ADRIEN

T he princess was late. Adrien glanced at the restaurant door, then down at his cellphone. She should’ve been here half an hour ago. He was beginning to look foolish.

He’d drunk a glass of champagne as he waited, watching as the one he’d ordered for the princess became warm and flat.

He could only examine the menu so many times — eight courses.

Could he really sit through eight courses of small talk with a woman he only knew through her pictures on social media?

Adrien had known this was a mistake from the start…

“Don’t mess this one up,” his mother had told him, when she’d called him the previous day. “You’re not getting any younger.”

Adrien was thirty-two. He was hardly ancient. But his parents had a point. Time was ticking, and there were expectations to be fulfilled.

“Would Your Highness care for another glass of champagne?” the sommelier asked.

Adrien shook his head. “No… some water. Still,” he said.

He was feeling tired. It had been a long day. The opening of the new embassy had been a high-profile event. There’d been hands to shake, a ribbon to cut, smiles to be given. The new embassy was meant to signal the growing economic ties between Monaco and Flandenne.

“And given you’re the crown prince, you’re the one who’s going to open it,” Adrien’s father had told him.

Monaco was meant to be a playground, but Adrien was finding it oppressive.

The paparazzi were following him everywhere.

They’d be lurking outside the restaurant now, waiting for a shot of the princess.

Here she was. A commotion at the door signaled her arrival.

Adrien could hear the clicks of the photographer’s shutters, before the door closed behind her, and the hushed ambience of Le Paradis returned.

Adrien rose to his feet, forcing the same smile to his face he’d adopted earlier at the opening of the embassy. The princess was shown to the table.

“We were caught in traffic,” she said, removing a light blue summer jacket from her shoulders and revealing a peach-colored silk gown, paired with a diamond necklace.

There was no apology for her lateness. Adrien called for a fresh glass of champagne to be brought, relieved to no longer be waiting, even as his immediate impression of the princess was unfavorable.

Marietta Vorrenburg was the daughter of the Grand Duke of Marestein, a principality wedged between Italy and Switzerland.

They’d never met, though they knew many of the same people, and inhabited much the same world.

She was pretty. But looks weren’t everything.

“You’ll find plenty in common, I’m sure,” Adrien’s mother had told him.

But finding things in common wasn’t necessarily what Adrien wanted.

He’d always been attracted to opposites — to the sort of women his parents wouldn’t approve of.

The fact the princess was of their choosing meant Adrien was already ill-disposed to her, and though attractive, her haughty demeanor did little to endear her.

“It’s a set menu. I’ve always liked this restaurant. They cook the lobster exceptionally well,” Adrien said, as the princess examined the bill of fare.

“I don’t eat shellfish,” she said dismissively.

“I’m sure they can do something different,” Adrien replied, as the fresh glass of champagne arrived.

He was trying to be friendly, but it seemed the princess had no intention of making an effort.

An awkward silence descended between them.

She didn’t make eye contact, staring instead at a spot on the table, where a candle was flickering in a silver holder.

Adrien was relieved the paparazzi couldn’t see the two of them together, but what were the other diners thinking?

The fact of the crown prince of Flandenne dining with the daughter of the Grand Duke of Marestein was bound to attract attention. Adrien could see the headlines now.

“Have you… been in Monaco long?” he ventured, knowing he was only making small talk, but finding nothing else to say. “I opened our new embassy today. It’s hoped to improve economic ties between Flandenne and Monaco. I truly believe smaller states have a part to play in European economic growth.”

It was something Adrien was passionate about — his country and its prospects. But the princess looked up at him disinterestedly.

“I’m here to shop — new fashions for the season. It’s my sister’s wedding later in the summer.”

“Ah, yes… Are the preparations going well?” Adrien asked.

She hadn’t taken his lead in the conversation, giving a one-word answer, then falling silent.

Shopping, it seemed, was far more interesting than economic prospects or international diplomacy.

Adrien could find nothing in common with her.

He felt as though she had no interest in what he was saying, and with everything he subsequently said, the princess seemed to have a way of bringing it back to herself.

The first course was a chilled gazpacho, served with a parmesan tuile.

It was delicious — full of the scent of the tomatoes, as though they’d just been picked.

But the princess ate only a spoonful before pushing it aside.

“I can’t stand cold soups,” she said.

“What do you like?” Adrien replied, his tone betraying a certain frustration he was beginning to feel towards her.

The date was going badly. Adrien was running out of things to say, and he was growing tired of listening to the princess talk only about herself.

There were still six courses to go, the gazpacho having been followed by a dish of langoustines for Adrien, and a beetroot carpaccio for the princess.

She’d sent it back, complaining the pieces weren’t evenly sliced as they apparently should be.

On his part, Adrien had sent his compliments to the chef — the langoustines were delicious.

“How long do you intend to stay in Monaco?” he asked.

He was scraping the barrel now. There was no chemistry between them. The evening was proving a disaster.

“A few days. Then I go to Florence to meet my sister. Fabrizio has a villa near there.”

Count Fabrizio Fellipe was the man the princess’s sister was to marry. Adrien had seen their faces splashed over the front covers of the newspapers following the announcement — it was what had given his mother the idea for the disaster now unfolding.

“Don’t they look happy?” she’d said. “That could be you and the princess.”

But having now reached the third course — an ingenious dish of caviar and quail — Adrien was convinced it could not be.

He was starting to wonder if there was a way to extract himself from the princess’s company, even as to do so would have consequences.

His car was waiting outside. Janssen, his chauffeur, would be there, as would his bodyguards, Olaf and Grieg.

But how to get there without being seen by the paparazzi?

If Adrien left the restaurant alone, he’d be the one splashed across tomorrow’s front pages.

But if you leave another way, it’ll be the same — she’ll be seen leaving alone.

Adrien was damned either way, but he certainly had no intention of making a false show for the cameras and enduring the flood of speculation on social media.

Last year, he’d taken a woman he’d met in Saint Moritz on the cable car to Victoire’s — the restaurant at ten thousand feet above the resort.

By the early evening, rumors of a proposal had reached fever point, and the palace had been forced to issue a statement clarifying Adrien’s position.

“The public want to know about you,” his mother had said, after Adrien had complained he had no privacy.

Why shouldn’t he walk away from the date with the princess? She’d taken out her cellphone now and was scrolling through social media. As the waiters approached to clear away their plates — the princess having hardly touched her quail — Adrien rose to his feet.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, placing his napkin over the back of his chair.

Several of the other diners looked up at him as he passed.

Everyone knew who he was. He couldn’t simply leave by the way he’d come in.

The paparazzi were waiting for him there, but the restaurant had another entrance — a discreet exit at the back — and beckoning to the ma?tre d’ Adrien whispered to him to send the bill to the embassy.

“I’m leaving by the back way,” he said, taking out his cellphone and summoning Janssen by text.

The exit was beyond the restrooms. The princess would think he was merely taking his time, even as he thanked the ma?tre d’ for his discretion, slipping him a fifty-euro note for his trouble.

Janssen was on his way with the car, and though Adrien felt a fleeting sense of guilt for what he was about to do, the evening was already over.

The princess might even thank him, though she’d be forced to confront the paparazzi alone.

She can always leave by the back way, too.

The car was outside, and the ma?tre d’ signaled for Adrien to make his escape.

The exit led into an alleyway at the back of the restaurant, and there was the Bentley, replete with its Flandenne registration and flags on either side of the bonnet.

There could be no mistaking its lineage, but Adrien scrambled into the back, telling Janssen to make all haste to his hotel, hoping the paparazzi wouldn’t yet realize he’d left the restaurant.

As the car purred through the streets of Monaco, Adrien breathed a sigh of relief.

He’d gotten away, but he knew his escape would be short-lived.

He pictured the scene playing out in the restaurant — the princess realizing what had happened, her anger — or perhaps her relief.

But it was his mother he feared the most. The call would come the next morning — perhaps in the afternoon if he was lucky — she’d berate him, call him a fool, and remind him of his duty. It always came back to duty.

“Shall I go to the back entrance here, too, Your Highness?” Janssen asked.

Adrien nodded. He wanted to go to bed and forget the whole sorry affair.

“Yes… then I can go straight up.”

The doorman was waiting, and Adrien could see Olaf and Grieg already in position.

Slipping out of the car, he hurried into the hotel, taking the back stairs to his suite, where he sank down into one of the leather sofas, ordering a glass of cognac from the butler who’d come to attend him.

The sun was setting, casting its orange rays across the shimmering Mediterranean Sea.

Adrien’s suite looked down on the marina, where the superyachts lay moored, each one more impressive than the last. A sudden thought now occurred to Adrien — a possibility that might just prolong the inevitable for a few days longer.

Taking out his cellphone, he scrolled through the contacts, alighting on the name of Giuseppe Bellagio.

Smiling to himself, he pressed call, listening to it ring a couple of times before the voice of his old friend cut through.

“Ciao, Adrien. Come stai?” he answered, speaking in Italian, though Adrien answered in English.

They’d been at boarding school together in England. Giuseppe was the son of an Italian banker and one of the richest men in Italy. He spent most of his time on his yacht in the Mediterranean surrounded by pretty women to be cast off as soon as he tired of them, and replaced in port.

“Giuseppe. I need to escape for a few days. Can you help me?” Adrien said.

Giuseppe laughed. “Who are you escaping from this time? Is a woman pursuing you? Have you left her without a hope? Or have you left her with a kid?” he asked.

Adrien smiled. “Nothing like that, no. I just need to make myself scarce for a few days, and I want to go somewhere the paparazzi won’t be on my tail the whole time. Can I use the yacht? Just for a few days.”

Adrien knew Giuseppe would be thinking the worst, and there’d certainly been times when Adrien had come dangerously close to scandal.

Leaving the princess in the restaurant hardly compared to some of his wilder antics, but this time, Adrien just wanted to get away.

He couldn’t face the thought of cameras, or of questions shouted at him as soon as he left the hotel the next morning.

“It’s yours, my friend. I’ll be heading off on business for a few days, but I’ll see you on board first. My home is your home — whatever you’re leaving behind,” Giuseppe replied.

Adrien was relieved. Monaco had been fun, but it was time to leave, even as he knew it wouldn’t be long before he was found again.