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His Pregnant Princess Bride
Catherine Mann
A princess and a Southern billionaire are expecting twins! Only from USA TODAY bestselling author Catherine Mann!His focus is on his family’s football dynasty. Louisiana billionaire Gervais Reynaud has no time for romance. But he can’t say no to a tryst with Erika Mitras. True, she’s a princess, but in no way prim…or proper. Their time together is unbelievable…and all too short.When Erika said goodbye, she meant it. But now she must tell Gervais the truth. He’s about to be a father…to royal twins. After leaving her overbearing family, Erika wants nothing from Gervais. But the tempting tycoon just may charm her into a future she desires all too much.
Erika wasn’t at all what he expected when he’d spotted a foreign princess on the guest list.
He’d envisioned either a stiff-necked dignitary or a football groupie bent on a photo op and a chance to meet his players. He didn’t come across many people who dared tell him they didn’t like football.
How contrary that her disinterest in his world made her all the more appealing. Yes, she aroused him in a way he couldn’t recall having felt about any woman before.
And quite possibly some of that allure had to do with the fact that for once in his life he wasn’t under the scrutiny of the American media.
Perhaps if he was careful he could do something impulsive without worrying about the consequences rippling through his family’s world.
* * *
His Pregnant Princess Bride
is part of the Bayou Billionaires series—Secrets and scandal are a Cajun family legacy for the Reynaud brothers!
His Pregnant Princess Bride
Catherine Mann
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
USA TODAY bestselling author CATHERINE MANN lives on a sunny Florida beach with her flyboy husband and their four children. With more than forty books in print in over twenty countries, she has also celebrated wins for both a RITA® Award and a Booksellers’ Best Award. Catherine enjoys chatting with readers online—thanks to the wonders of the internet, which allows her to network with her laptop by the water! Contact Catherine through her website, www.catherinemann.com (http://www.catherinemann.com), find her on Facebook and Twitter (@CatherineMann1 (https://twitter.com/catherinemann1)) or reach her by snail mail at PO Box 6065, Navarre, FL 32566, USA.
To my dear friend and former neighbour from Louisiana—Karen.
Thank you for all the Mardi Gras cakes and celebrations!
Contents
Cover (#u9eab9bb5-4b78-54d1-993f-a064943541fe)
Introduction (#u2952c242-ebc0-5b7f-9d6b-05240e21a8b2)
Title Page (#ua5a878e8-6641-5f4f-bbc8-cb9b1efe8194)
About the Author (#u35666a7d-3493-5380-9966-bd39e44a5d56)
Dedication (#u09214708-c4cc-5751-a7fb-282786e56dad)
Prologue (#u36ee5326-933a-52a3-ab59-3858ac8be961)
One (#u504e3a04-5a02-52c5-94af-9fa5dfb21048)
Two (#u3a0e9a28-7dd8-56f8-a74d-6055bf420a23)
Three (#u095b38a5-1edf-5881-8770-cc030c23512a)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_76c31b44-0bd2-5dfe-99bd-6c27e7ea5fc7)
“I have to confess, I don’t care for the football at all.”
Princess Erika’s declaration caught Gervais Reynaud off guard, considering they’d spent the past four hours in the private viewing box overlooking Wembley Stadium, where his team would be playing a preseason exhibition game two months from now.
As the owner of the New Orleans Hurricanes NFL team, Gervais had more important things to do than indulge this high-maintenance Nordic princess he’d been seated beside during today’s event, a high-stakes soccer match that was called “football” on this side of the globe. A game she didn’t even respect regardless of which country played. Had it been sexist of him to think she might actually enjoy the game, since she was a royal, serving in her country’s army? He’d expected a military member to be athletic. Not unreasonable, right? She was definitely toned under that gray, regimented uniform decorated with gold braid and commendations.
But she was also undoubtedly bored by the game.
And while Gervais didn’t enjoy soccer as much as American football, he respected the hell out of it. The athletes were some of the best in the world. His main task for today had been to scout the stadium, to see what it would be like for the New Orleans Hurricanes when they played here in August. He’d staked his business reputation on the team he owned, a move his financial advisers had all adamantly opposed. There were risks, of course. But Gervais had never backed away from a challenge. It went against his nature. And now his career was tied to the success of the Hurricanes. The media spotlight had always been intense for him because of his family name. But after he’d purchased the franchise, the media became relentless.
Previewing the Wembley Stadium facilities at least offered him a welcome weekend of breathing room from scrutiny, since the UK fan base for American football was nominal. Here, he could simply enjoy a game without a camera panning to his face or reporters circling him afterward.
He only wished he could be watching the Hurricanes play today. He’d put one of his brothers in charge of the team as head coach. Another brother ran the team on the field in the quarterback position. Sportswriters back in the United States implied he’d made a colossal mistake.
Playing favorites? Clearly, they didn’t know the Reynauds.
He wouldn’t have chosen from his family unless they were the best for the job. Not when purchasing this team provided his chance to forge his own path as more than just part of the Reynaud extended-family empire of shipping moguls and football stars.
But to do that successfully, he had to play the political game with every bit as much strategy as the game on the field. As a team owner, he was the face of the Hurricanes. Which meant putting up with a temperamental princess who hadn’t grasped that the “football team” he owned wasn’t the one on the field. Not that she seemed to care much one way or the other.
Sprawled on the white leather sofa, Gervais tossed a pigskin from hand to hand, the ball a token gift from the public relations coordinator who’d welcomed him today and shown him to the private viewing box. The box was emptying now that the clock ran out after the London club beat another English team in the FA Cup Final. “You don’t like the ball?”
She waved an elegant hand, smoothing over her pale blond hair sleeked back in a flawless twist. “No, not that. Perhaps my English is not as good as I would wish,” she said with only the slightest hint of an accent. She’d been educated well, speaking with an intonation that was unquestionably sexy, even as she failed to notice the kind of football he held was different than the one they’d used on the field. “I do not care for the game. The football game.”
“Interesting choice, then, for your country to send you as the royal representative to a finals match.” Damn, she was too beautiful for her own good, wearing that neat-fitting uniform and filling it out in all the right places. Just looking at her brought to mind her heritage—her warrior princess ancestors out in battle side by side with badass Vikings—although this Nordic princess had clearly been suffering in regal silence for the past four hours. The way she’d dismissed her travel assistant had Gervais thinking he wouldn’t even bother playing the diplomat with this ice princess.
“So, Princess Erika, were you sent here as punishment for some bad-girl imperial infraction?”
And if so, why wasn’t she leaving now that the game had ended? What held her here, sipping champagne and talking to him after the box cleared? More important, what kept him here when he had a flight planned for tonight?
“First of all, I am not a reigning royal.” Her icy blue eyes were as cool as her icy homeland as she set down her crystal champagne flute. “Our monarchy has been defunct for over forty-five years. And even if it was not, I am the youngest of five girls. And as for my second point, comments like yours only confirm my issue with attending a function like this where you assume I must be some kind of troublemaker if I don’t enjoy this game. I must be flawed. No offense meant, but you and I simply have different interests.”
“Then why are you here?” He wanted to know more than he should.
The PR coordinator for the stadium had introduced them only briefly and he found himself hungry to know more about this intriguing but reticent woman.
“My mother was not happy with my choice to join the military, even though if I were a male that would not be in question. She is concerned I am not socializing enough and that I will end up unmarried, since clearly my worth is contingent upon having babies.” Rolling her eyes, she crossed her long, slim legs at the ankles, her arms elegantly draped on the white leather chair. “Ridiculous, is it not, considering I am able to support myself? Besides, most of my older sisters are married and breeding like raccoons.”
“Like rabbits.”
She arched a thin blond eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“The phrase is breeding like rabbits.” Gervais couldn’t quite smother a grin as the conversation took an interesting turn.
“Oh, well, that is strange.” She frowned, tapping her upper lip with a short, neat fingernail. “Rabbits are cute and fuzzy. Raccoons are less appealing. I believe raccoons fit better,” she said as if merely stating it could change a colloquialism on her say-so.
“You don’t like kids?” he found himself asking, even though he could have stood and offered to walk her out and be done with any expectation of social nicety.
When was the last time he exchanged more than a few words with a woman outside of business? He could spend another minute talking to her.
“I do not believe I must have a dozen heirs to make a defunct monarchy stable.”
Hmm, valid point and an unexpected answer. “So I take that to mean you’re no threat to hitting on the players?”
Down on the field, the winning team was being mobbed.
“You assume correctly,” she blurted so quickly and emphatically, she startled a laugh from him.
It was refreshing to find a woman who wasn’t a sports groupie for a change.
He found himself staying behind to talk to her even though he had a flight to catch. “What do you do in the military?”
“I am a nurse by degree but the military uses my skills as a linguist. In essence, I’m a diplomatic translator.”
“Say again?”
“Is that so shocking? Do I not appear intelligent?”
She appeared hot as hell, like a blue flame, the most searing of all.
“You’re lovely and articulate. You speak English fluently as a second language. You’re clearly intelligent.”
“And you are a flatterer,” she said dismissively. “I work as a translator, but now that I’m nearing the end of my time in military service, I’ll be taking the RN degree a step further, becoming a nurse-practitioner, with a specialty in homeopathic treatments, using natural herbs and even scents, studying how they relate to moods and physiological effects. Stress relievers. Energy infusers. Or immune boosters. Or allergy relievers. Any number of combinations to combine an alluring perfume with a healthier lifestyle.”
“Where do you study that?”
“I’ve been accepted into a program in London. I had hoped to pursue nursing in the military to increase my experience, but my government had other plans for me to be a translator.”
A nurse, soon to become a nurse-practitioner? Now, that surprised him. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you.” She nodded regally, a lock of hair sliding free from her twist and caressing her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear. “Now, explain to me what I need to know to speak intelligently about what I saw down on the field with all those musclemen when I return home.”
Standing, he extended an arm to her. “By all means, Princess, I know a little something about European football even though the team I own is an American football team.”
She rose with the elegance of a woman who’d been trained in every manner to grace high-end ballrooms not ball games. And yet she chose to further her education and serve her country in uniform.
Princess-Captain Erika Mitras wasn’t at all what he expected when he’d spotted a foreign dignitary on the guest list. He’d envisioned either a stiff-necked VIP or a football groupie bent on a photo op and a chance to meet the players. He didn’t come across many people who dared tell him they didn’t like football—European or American. In fact, he didn’t have many people in his life who disliked sports. The shipping business might be the source of Reynaud wealth, but football had long been their passion.
How contrary that her disinterest in sports made her all the more appealing. Yes, she aroused him in a way he couldn’t recall having felt about any woman before.
And quite possibly some of that allure had to do with the fact that for once in his life he wasn’t under the scrutiny of the American media. Perhaps if he was careful, he could do something impulsive without worrying about the consequences rippling through his family’s world.
He stepped closer, folding her hand into the crook of his arm, and caught a whiff of a cinnamon scent. “And while I do that, what do you say we enjoy London? Dinner, theater, your choice. Just the two of us.”
Flights could be rescheduled.
She paused to peer up at him, her cool blue eyes roaming his face for a moment before the barest hint of a smile played over her lips. “Only if, after a brief outline of the differences in these football sports, we can agree to no football talk at all?”
“None,” he vowed without hesitation.
“Then it sounds lovely.”
Who knew cinnamon would be such a total turn-on?
One (#ulink_f55751ee-8e0e-5cc3-ab8c-fb9095d182e7)
2 ½ Months Later
New Orleans, Louisiana
Princess Erika Birgitta Inger Freya Mitras of Holsgrof knew how to make a royally memorable appearance.
Her mother had taught her well. And Erika needed all the confidence she could garner striding onto the practice field full of larger-than-life men in training. Most important, she needed all her confidence to face one particular man. The leader of this testosterone domain, the owner of the state-of-the-art training facility where he now presided. Players dotted the field in black-and-gold uniforms, their padded shoulders crashing against each other. Shouts, grunts and curses volleyed. Men who appeared to be trainers or coaches jogged alongside them, barking instructions or blowing whistles.
She’d finished her military stint a month ago, her hopes of serving her country in combat having been sidelined by her parents’ interference. They’d shuffled her into some safe figurehead job that made her realize the family’s Viking-warrior heritage would not be carried on through her. She’d been so disillusioned, adrift and on edge the day she attended the soccer game, she had been reckless.
Too reckless. And that weekend of indulgence brought her here. Now. To New Orleans. To Gervais.
Her Jimmy Choo heels sank into the most plush grass ever as she stepped onto the practice field of the New Orleans Hurricanes. She’d assumed this particularly American game was played on Astroturf. And assumptions were what she had to avoid when it came to her current adventure in the United States.
She had not intended to see Gervais Reynaud again after he left the United Kingdom. Their weekend of dates—and amazing, mind-blowing sex—had been an escape from rules and protocol and everything else that had kept her life rigidly in check for so long. She’d had relationships in the past, carefully chosen and approved. This was her first encounter of her own choosing.
And it had turned out to be far more memorable than she could have ever imagined.
