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Wait. Was she a guard? It was an odd place to hover. Maybe that’s why she seemed so familiar. After spending two years with sober-faced watchmen dogging her movements, perhaps it wasn’t the face she recognized so much as the attitude.
Because, if the woman was merely a relative waiting on a patient, there was a very comfortable lounge at the front of the clinic. The back entrance was for people like Cinnia, the paranoid ones who crept in through the building’s underground car park in hopes of keeping her visit to this prenatal specialist strictly confidential.
Cinnia didn’t bother speculating who the celebrity patient could be. She had bigger fish to fry. She was here for a scan to confirm suspicions on why she was expanding so quickly.
No, she kept thinking, absolutely refusing to entertain the most likely reason. She had a lot of work to get through in the next twenty-two weeks and had struggled to find time for another morning off for this test. If the doctor’s suspicions were correct, her entire future would have to be recalibrated.
Twins? Really? No. Multiple births weren’t even hereditary when they were identical and she thought only mothers passed along the fraternal trait. A father with an identical brother and two younger, identical twin sisters couldn’t pass that to his offspring.
Could he?
Henri did whatever he wanted. She knew that much.
She did not miss that arrogance, or him, or the life he led with guards like that one dogging his every step, she assured herself with another flick of a glance at the woman by the door.
So why did she spend her mornings combing through online gossip pages, reading every scrap she could find about him? Reading that Henri was back to his old ways of dating and dropping was pure self-destruction, but at least there wasn’t much written about that. His twin, Ramon, was stealing all the thunder, still racing and winning while doubling down with his own passionate exploits through a rotation of women who were loved and left.
The Sauveterres were a private lot, despite their domination of the media. But in her time with Henri, Cinnia had noticed that Ramon always seemed to make a splash in the papers when something was going on with the family, like he was deliberately pulling the attention.
Her breakup with Henri was two months ago. Old news by now. It must be Angelique he was trying to cover for.
The brothers were insanely protective of their younger sisters, which was understandable given Trella’s kidnapping when she was a child. Angelique was the only one seen in public these days and was becoming quite notorious, what with her affair with the Prince of Zhamair—or rather both him and the Prince of Elazar, if the online rags were to be believed.
Cinnia frowned, still thinking there was something about the photo of Angelique with the Prince of Elazar that wasn’t right. Impossibly, she had thought it was actually Trella in that photo, but Trella was a recluse. Cinnia had only met her in person a couple of times.
The nurse was on the phone and finally noticed her. Cinnia waved a greeting and tried to smile past her jumbled thoughts. Tried not to think of Henri and twins. It was too big and scary to absorb unless she was forced to.
The nurse indicated to a clerk that Cinnia was here. The clerk nodded and turned to the cabinet to pick out her file.
Cinnia loosened her scarf and started to unbutton her coat, pleased to be warm and dry when it was such a tremendously miserable day, even by London’s late-February standards.
Behind her, a door to an exam room opened, startling her into stepping out of the way and turning.
“Oh. Excuse me,” the woman said.
“My fault—” Cinnia began, then blurted, “Oh, my God!” as she recognized that model-like physique and those aristocratic features. “I was just thinking about you!”
“Cinnia!” Angelique beamed and they went in for a hug like long-lost sisters, affection squeezing Cinnia’s arms tight around the other woman, her excitement completely overriding what should have been way more caution on her part.
The reality of Cinnia’s situation hit belatedly and continued to strike in successive slaps over the next few seconds.
Cinnia felt Henri’s sister stiffen as she came up against Cinnia’s baby bump beneath the layers of her clothes.
Don’t tell him, Cinnia thought with panic.
They drew back. Cinnia knew she wore a look of horror, which was awful when she was actually happy about the baby, happy to see—
“Oh, my God,” Cinnia whispered. “I thought you were your sister.”
Cinnia had always been able to tell the twins apart quite easily. It had been surprise and a quick glance and an even quicker assumption that had made her mistake Trella for Angelique. Trella never left the compound in Spain without one of her siblings accompanying her.
Did that mean Henri was here? Cinnia looked around with alarm, only seeing the guard.
Of course—that’s why the guard seemed familiar. She’d seen her at Sus Brazos, the Sauveterre family home in Spain. This was Trella, even though there was nothing distinct to tell the women apart, Cinnia just knew by something in their demeanor. Angelique had that hint of reserve that Henri wore, while Trella had the radiance of warmth that Ramon projected.
Then it hit that not only was it odd for Trella to be out in public, with no family in sight, but she was also in a prenatal clinic.
“Oh. My. God.”
What was the normally cloistered Sauveterre twin doing in London? Holding a bottle of prenatal vitamins and looking guilty as hell? How did a woman who lived like a nun and had female guards get herself pregnant? Henri was going to lose his mind!
Trella tucked the bottle behind her back and opened her mouth, but only a weak um came out.
Cinnia’s eyes were widening to the point they stung. She was pretty sure they were going to fall right out of her head.
She watched Trella’s gaze narrow as the full scope of where they were and why penetrated her side. Cinnia’s blood pressure had been stable so far, but her limbs began to tingle and her head went so hot she felt like her hair was on fire. She was pretty sure whatever breaths she was managing to draw lost all their oxygen before hitting her lungs.
“Are you…okay?” Cinnia asked hesitantly. She didn’t know exactly what Trella had been through when she had been kidnapped, but she knew it had left her afraid of men for a long time. Afraid of a lot of things.
Trella, being an enormously resilient and self-deprecating person, let out a choke of hysterical laughter and rolled her eyes. It was a “look where I am,” and her shrug conveyed that she was dealing with an unplanned pregnancy, but not one caused by something traumatic.
“How about you?” she challenged with wry cheer, then sobered. She frowned at Cinnia’s middle. “Is it…?” She glanced around.
Henri’s. That’s what she was asking.
Cinnia’s eyes teared up. Please don’t tell him, she silently pleaded.
This was part sitcom, part Greek tragedy. Her own hysterical laugh pressed for escape, but her tight throat wouldn’t release it.
Trella straightened her spine so she was that little bit taller than Cinnia. She gave her wavy dark hair a toss.
“We’ll pretend this didn’t happen.” She was a stunning woman in her midtwenties, but she looked nine years old, hiding stolen candy and bravely pretending it wasn’t in her red-hot hand.
This was the sister Henri had told Cinnia had existed in his childhood, the brat who had driven him crazy getting herself into trouble, always needing her big brother to step in and fix it.
Cinnia wanted to hug her again. She was so proud of Trella, even if conquering her past had led to a complicated future.
And she desperately wanted to share this moment with Henri, instinctively knowing that after the shock, this sign of healing in Trella would be a much-needed bright spot.
Or not. Worrying about any Sauveterre would sit heavily on him. Taking care of his mother and sisters was as much responsibility as he was willing to shoulder. That’s why he’d drawn such a hard line against marrying and procreating.
A wistful sigh filled her, but she held it in. Ironic that she wanted to be there for him as he dealt with his sister’s news knowing full well he would lose his mind once he learned Cinnia was carrying his child.
I told you from the beginning I would never marry you.
Her heart clenched afresh, abraded and stung. Scorned.
“Ms. Whitley,” the nurse said behind her. “I can take you now.”
“It’s really good to see you,” Cinnia said to Trella, holding out her arms for another quick hug. “I’ve missed all of you.”
Most of Cinnia’s interactions with Henri’s family had been over the tablet, but she felt the loss of connection to the Sauveterre clan quite deeply.
“I would ask you to give my regards to everyone, but…” Cinnia trailed off.
Trella’s arms were firm and strong around her. She pulled away slowly, tilting her head so they were eye-to-eye. Would her baby have those Sauveterre eyes, Cinnia wondered with a pang? Babies?
“You and I can stay in touch now,” Trella said with a conspiratorial twitch at the corners of her mouth. Her expression sobered to concern. “Can I call you? I’d like to know why…”
Cinnia knew that keeping the pregnancy from Henri was a losing battle. She just wanted a plan in place before he found out so he wouldn’t feel trapped. Trella was far too close to her siblings to keep her own pregnancy a secret from them for long. Once she spilled those beans, Cinnia’s condition would be quick to follow.
But if she could buy a little time to get her ducks in a row, maybe find out exactly how many babies she was actually having…
She nodded. “If you’re still in London at the end of the week, why don’t we have dinner?”
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_3791da6b-856f-5851-8cf2-a24379c1f065)
Two years ago…
CINNIA WAS NOT a social climber, but her roommate, Vera, was. Cheerfully and without apology. Thus, when Vera wangled opening-night tickets from the owner of the hottest new nightclub in London, she demanded Cinnia accompany her.
“I told him about your title,” Vera said. “That’s how I got him to say yes to our coming.”
“The title that belongs to my great-uncle a million times removed whom I’ve never met and who wouldn’t know me from Eve?”
“I might have exaggerated how close you are. But I told him about your granny’s vintage tiara and since his theme is ‘flappers and gangsters,’ and he wants window dressing, he said we could come as staff. No swag,” Vera said with a dismayed wrinkle of her nose. “Just mingle with the guests. Be first on the dance floor, that sort of thing.”
Cinnia was reluctant. Her weekends were her only time away from her job at a wealth management firm to put the pieces in place for striking out on her own. She had set September as her goal and had a mile-long list of to-dos to make it happen.
“You work too hard,” Vera groaned. “Look at it as a chance to rub elbows with potential clients. This will be wall-to-wall, top-tier, A-list celebs.”
“That’s not how it works.”
Cinnia’s mother saw a different opportunity when Cinnia spoke to her over the tablet. “Tell me I can’t wear the tiara so I can tell Vera there’s no point.”
“Nonsense. We’ll get my dress out of storage, too. It’s time they both saw some use. You, too, for that matter.” Her mother had purposely held a Roaring Twenties party on her tenth anniversary so she could wear her grandmother’s modest, heirloom tiara. She had had a beaded dress made special for the occasion.
“You wouldn’t get the tiara from the safe-deposit box when we were broke and I wanted to sell it, but you’ll let me wear it to a nightclub?” Cinnia asked, askance.
“This is why I kept it, for you girls to wear on special occasions. Go. Have fun. There’s bound to be some nice men there.”
“Rich husbands, you mean? They don’t sell them at the bar, Mum.”
“Of course not. It will be an open bar for something like this, won’t it?” her mother returned tartly.
There was a reason she and her sisters called their mum Mrs. Bennet. She was forever trying to find their golden ticket of a husband. There was also a reason she was so determined to do so. The Whitleys had descended from aristocracy. The blue blood cells had been significantly diluted by bright, peasant red, but Milly Whitley was determined that her daughters would make good matches and the Whitleys would return to the lofty position they’d all enjoyed before Mr. Whitley had died and his fragile financial house of cards had toppled around them.
Until then, they would dress the part and hang on to a house that was a money pit and they would attend the sorts of occasions that told the world they hadn’t gone anywhere.
“I daresay you’ll find a better class of suitor than your usual struggling students and apron clingers,” her mother added snobbishly.
All they needed was one man with deep pockets.
Or, as Cinnia had said countless times, they could all get proper jobs like normal people.
Her two middle sisters decried that as blasphemy.
Priscilla, her first younger sister, was a model. Genuinely pretty, but not in high demand. Two years out of school and she had barely worked at all. She just needed a better head shot or a new outfit or a change of hairstyle and her career would take off, she kept assuring them. Completing a course in hairstyling or something useful like that would only hold her back.
Nell, their stunning little party girl, didn’t need a job. Boys already bought her things and she was the one who would land them the Big Fish when the time came. If Cinnia could somehow keep her in school long enough to complete her A levels without getting pregnant, she’d be thrilled.
Thankfully Dorry had a brain and ten times anyone’s ambition to use it. Their youngest sister had been babysitting from the moment she was old enough to wipe a nose and currently had a job in a fish-and-chip truck, much to their mother’s repulsion. Dorry squirreled her money before anyone saw it and kept her head down, usually bent over a book. If something happened to Cinnia, she had every confidence her baby sister would keep the rest of them fed and sheltered.
She was trying not to put that on poor Dorry. After trying to help her mother win a fight against owing back taxes and other debts associated with her father’s estate, Cinnia had taken an interest in wills and estate planning. As careers went, it paid well enough, was stable and flexible and she found it intellectually challenging.
Her mother said she might as well be an undertaker.
Vera said, “No matter what, do not tell any men we chat up what you do for a living. Not unless we’re trying to get away from them.”
Cinnia didn’t have Vera’s interest in meeting men. Her mother’s lack of a career to fall back on had been their downfall. All Milly was qualified to do was take in university students as boarders because she had a big house, which was how she paid the bills, much to her everlasting embarrassment. She spun it as a lark when people asked about it. She liked to be surrounded by young people, she said, playing eccentric.
Cinnia was determined never to have her back against the wall like that. She was already self-supporting and, even though she knew running her own agency came with risk, she had hit the ceiling where she was. The next step was to become her own boss.
Thus, she was thinking about how to build her client list as she stood with Vera, chatting to an unassuming musician and a nerdy social-media magnate. The men were ridiculously wealthy and equally shy, which was why bubbly women like Vera had been called in, Cinnia supposed, letting her gaze stray to take in an evening beyond any she would experience again in this lifetime.
The nightclub was in a reclaimed industrial building, tricked out with steel and glass and modern art. Top-shelf liquor was served in cut-crystal glasses by uniformed bartenders. The main room was open to the upper floor, making the place feel airy despite the crush of people in the low-slung chairs and standing in groups around the full dance floor.
Tonight, the tables had been covered with velvet tablecloths and the place was littered with feather boas and faux furs. The typical nightclub black light had been replaced with a sultry red. It threw sexy shadows into every corner and gave faces a warm glow. The DJ was mashing old jazz and modern hits with delightful results while a bouncer guarded stairs that rose to a walk-around gallery on the upper level. When they’d arrived, they’d been given a peek into the ultraposh, private entertainment rooms reserved for the most exclusive guests.
Judging by the movie stars and the other celebrities not gaining access, those rooms would be used by a very rich and exalted personality indeed.
Cinnia wasn’t impressed with money and fame, but she would love to take on any of these pocketbooks as clients. Sadly, people with this much money to throw around were not interested in a boutique agency still smelling of builder’s dust. She had known from the outset that nothing would come of this evening beyond a few lost hours and a cute entry in the logbook of appearances made by her great-granny’s tiara. C’est la vie.
Then she saw him.
Them, really. The Sauveterre twins. The male pair. The same gorgeous man in duplicate arrived at the top of the short flight of entrance stairs, where they overlooked the sunken area of the main lounge.
Her pulse stumbled.
She was startled to see them in person. And curious, of course. She’d been eleven when their sister had been kidnapped, old enough to follow the story as intently as the rest of the world. It had had a profound impact on her. To this day it made her heart feel stretched and tense just thinking about it.
The family name had turned up in a million news stories and gossip magazines and online hits since then. That’s how she knew, despite the distance across the dimly lit room, that they were as handsome as they seemed from afar.
They had identical dark hair cut close under matching black fedoras tilted slyly to the left. While every other man had turned up in a baggy, striped suit with a red tie and carried a violin case, these two wore crisp black shirts with the cuffs rolled back, high-waisted, tailored black pants held up with white suspenders and smart white ties.
The sharp look accentuated their muscled shoulders and neat hips, while the narrow cut of the pants drew her eye to their matching black-and-white wing tips. They looked like gangsters of old, but the really dangerous ones. The ones so powerful and commanding, they didn’t have to swagger. They killed with a blink.
They wore exactly the same expression of bored tolerance as they pushed their hands in their pockets and scanned the room.
