Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition
Read Pleasure, Pregnancy and a Proposition Online
Authors: Heidi Rice
Tags: #Health & Fitness, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #Pregnancy & Childbirth, #General
‘Let me out. This is kidnapping!’
The words came out on an outraged squeak, which would have been embarrassing if she hadn’t been in a state of shock. ‘Where exactly are we going?’
He made one more turn, braked, and then backed into a parking space outside a six-storey Georgian terraced house. He switched off the engine and, slinging his arm over the steering wheel, angled his body towards her. ‘We’re here. The appointment’s not for another—’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Ten minutes,’ he announced, as if that explained everything.
She peered past him and read the street sign on the corner. ‘What are we doing in Harley Street?’
The house he’d stopped in front of had an ornate brass plaque listing two doctors’ names. That made sense. Harley Street was the domain of London’s most exclusive private medical practitioners. But nothing else did. Why had he brought her here?
He took his sunglasses off, flung them in the back seat. ‘Answer me one question,’ he said, his voice tight with annoyance. ‘Were you ever going to tell me about it?’
‘Tell you about what?’ Why was he looking at her as if she’d tried to steal the crown jewels and he’d caught her red-handed?
His gaze wandered down to her abdomen. She folded her arms, feeling oddly defensive. ‘About my baby, of course. What else?’
There are a few magic moments in everyone’s life that they know they’ll remember for ever. For me, two of my most magical moments happened in the ultrasound suite at UCH hospital in London, when my husband and I saw our two sons for the first time.
A few months ago my boys and I were looking at their yellowing ultrasound photos and I had one of those ‘What if?’ moments a writer dreams of. What if you were having that magical ultrasound moment, meeting that precious little scrap of humanity growing inside you for the first time, and you hadn’t even realised you were pregnant? And what if the father of your precious scrap was sitting beside you, looking handsome and devastatingly sexy, but you hardly knew him—and what you did know you didn’t like?
So I had a great starting-off point for my story, but I knew my heroine would have to be someone really special to survive the emotional rollercoaster she was going to have to ride to her happy-ever-after. One woman instantly sprang to mind. When I wrote my second book, THE MILE-HIGH CLUB, the heroine’s best friend Louisa kept butting into the story. Flirty, funny, reckless, romantic, beautiful, and with a wicked sense of humour, Louisa was brave enough to cling on during all the swoops and bumps—and big-hearted enough to forge them into something wonderful to boot.
All that was left to do was find a hero man enough to take that wild ride with Louisa—and Luke Devereaux stepped up to the plate. I hope you take as much pleasure in reading about how they battled their way to true love.
If you want to tell me about your magic moments, or even tell me what you think of Louisa and Luke’s story, I’d love to hear from you. Visit my website at www.heidi-rice.com or e-mail me on [email protected]
Cheers
Heidi x
Heidi Rice
was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/ French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and
Thelma and Louise
it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens, and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for ten years. Then two years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills and Boon novel, and she’s looking forward to many more to come.
Recent books by the same author:
BEDDED BY A BAD BOY
THE MILE-HIGH CLUB
THE TYCOON’S VERY PERSONAL ASSISTANT
To my dad, Peter Rice,
who I wish I could talk to just one more time.
And to Julia, Kieran and Nemone,
because talking to you guys is the next best thing.
‘Q
UICK
, Lou, major hottie alert. Twelve o’clock.’
Louisa DiMarco’s fingers paused on the keyboard of her computer at the urgent whisper from her editorial assistant, Tracy. ‘I’m on deadline here, Trace,’ she muttered. ‘And I happen to take my work seriously.’
Louisa was a professional. One of
Blush
magazine’s most popular and well-respected feature writers. Just because this article about the pros and cons of breast enlargement was giving her a headache—what were the pros anyway?—she would not be distracted from it because Tracy had spotted some good-looking guy in the office.
‘We’re talking scorching,’ Tracy crooned. ‘You will not want to miss this guy.’
Louisa kept her head down and carried on typing. For about two seconds.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ She clicked on her screen to save. ‘All right, one quick peek. But this had better be good.’ Surely even a dedicated features writer like herself was entitled to some recreational pursuits on the hottest, stuffiest, most boring Friday afternoon in the history of the world ever?
Louisa peered round her computer to get a better view
of the vast open-plan office, not expecting to be impressed. Tracy’s taste in men generally stank. Still, even Tracy’s idea of what constituted a hottie couldn’t make Louisa feel as queasy as the pictures she’d been looking at all afternoon. ‘Where is Adonis, then?’ she asked.
‘Over there.’ Tracy pointed to the far end of the office. ‘The bloke with Piers,’ she said, her voice hushed in reverence. ‘Isn’t he magnificent?’
Louisa sent her assistant a quick grin. Good to know she wasn’t the only stir-crazy female on the premises. She looked past the desks of journalists typing like crazy on the last Friday before press day, and spied two men with their backs to the room by the receptionist’s desk.
Louisa blinked. Tracy hadn’t just surprised her. She’d astonished her. Louisa was the office’s acknowledged hottie connoisseur and even she couldn’t fault the guy. Not from this angle anyway. Tall, dark and broad shouldered, with an expertly tailored navy-blue designer suit, Adonis was making their managing editor, Piers Parker, who was at least five foot ten, look like a midget.
‘What do you think?’ Tracy said impatiently.
Louisa tilted her head to one side to get a better look. Even from fifty feet away the man deserved an appreciative purr. ‘Well, he certainly qualifies from the rear,’ she purred. ‘But I think we’d need to see his face to make a final appraisal. As you know, no one enters the DiMarco Hottie Hall of Fame until they’ve passed the face test.’
Standing stiffly with his legs braced apart, Adonis chose that moment to thrust one fist into his trouser pocket. His body language radiated controlled irritation. Louisa didn’t care. The movement had made his jacket rise up over his butt, improving the view even more. Now, if he would just turn around and come a bit closer…
Something teased the edges of Louisa’s memory as she pressed her pen against her bottom lip and waited. She ignored it. This was definitely an improvement on silicone implants.
The clatter of computer keyboards and the buzz of conversation slowly tapered off as every woman in the place became aware of the designer-suited stranger in their midst. Louisa could almost hear a collective oestrogenloaded sigh over the hum of expectation.
‘Maybe he’s the new assistant editor?’ Tracy said hopefully.
‘I doubt it. That suit’s new season Armani, and Piers is practically genuflecting—which means Adonis is either on the board of directors or he’s an Arsenal player,’ Louisa whispered back.
Although she wouldn’t be surprised if he
was
a sportsman, with that lean, athletic build, Louisa couldn’t imagine a professional footballer looking so debonair.
Louisa fluffed her hair instinctively. Goodness, she was actually holding her breath. It had been so long since she’d had the urge to flirt she almost didn’t recognise the feeling. How long had it been since she’d felt excited in the presence of a good-looking man?
The errant thought had an image forming that she instantly repressed. Do not go there. Her radar had been spectacularly off that day, but it had been over three months ago. Twelve weeks, four days and—she did a quick calculation—sixteen hours, to be exact. Luke Devereaux, the handsome, charming Lord of Berwick and bona fide snake in the grass, no longer had the power to upset her. But the prickle of memory developed into a nasty little thorn, scratching at her consciousness.
Louisa’s brow furrowed as Piers turned to point straight
at her. How odd. Adonis followed in slow motion, but then a pair of piercing and painfully familiar grey eyes fixed on her face, and the little thorn became a jagged blade slicing through the sensual mist.
Louisa’s fingers went numb, her heart thudded like a sledgehammer, all her blood rocketed into her cheeks, and the hairs on the back of her neck felt as if a greedy fist had wrenched them out at the roots. And then heat blazed through her body as the memory she’d been repressing for the last three months hit her like a red-hot slap—strong fingers stroking her, insistent lips fastened on the pulsepoint in her neck, and wave upon glorious wave of orgasm rocketing up from her core.
A tangle of nerves, fury and nausea snaked into a vicious knot in the pit of her stomach.
What was
he
doing here?
That was no Adonis. The man walking towards her was the devil incarnate.
‘Wow, he’s coming over here,’ Tracy announced over the pneumatic drill now shattering Louisa’s eardrums. ‘Oh-my-God! Isn’t that Lord What’s-his-name? You know—he was in your Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelors list in the May issue. Maybe he’s here to thank you.’
Hardly, Louisa thought bitterly. He’d already exacted his revenge for that list three months ago. Louisa’s spine snapped straight and she folded her legs tightly under her chair. The tap of her high-heeled leather boot against the chair’s stem sounded like the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun.
If he was here to take another cheap shot at her, he could forget it.
Louisa had seen him coming this time. He’d used her trusting nature, her innate flirtatiousness and her incendi
ary attraction to him against her three months ago. He would never catch her unawares again. This time she would fight back.
Luke Devereaux’s long, purposeful strides ate up the acres of industrial blue carpeting as he zeroed in on his prey. He barely noticed the managing editor scuffling along at his heels, or the sea of female faces swivelling round to gawp at him. All his concentration, all his irritation, was focussed on one particular female. That she looked as stunningly beautiful as he remembered her—shiny gold-streaked hair framing an angelic face, killer cleavage accentuated by a figure-hugging dress covered in a bold Lichtenstein-like cartoon print, and mile-long legs encased in knee-high boots—only made him more determined to keep his cool.
Appearances were deceiving. This woman was no angel. What she was planning to do to him qualified as the worst thing a woman could do to a man.
Okay, things had got spectacularly out of hand three months ago. And he had to take a large part of the blame for that. The plan had been to teach her a little lesson about respecting people’s privacy—not take advantage of her the way he had.
But she deserved a large part of the blame too. He’d never met anyone as reckless and impulsive before in his life. And he wasn’t a saint. When a woman looked like her, smelt like her and felt like she did, what did she
think
he’d do? He couldn’t imagine any bloke being able to think clearly under the same circumstances. How could he possibly have known she wasn’t as experienced as she appeared?
Well, one thing was for sure: he was through feeling guilty about his part in it.
After his little chat with their mutual friend Jack
Devlin yesterday, all his guilt and all his regret over what had happened between them had given way to a slowburning anger.
An innocent life was involved—and he’d do whatever he had to do to protect it.
Whatever hurts, whatever injustices he might have done her in the past, he had no qualms whatsoever about bending her to his will now. And the sooner she realised that, the better.
Louisa DiMarco was about to discover that Luke Devereaux never backed down from a fight.
What was it the late, unlamented Lord Berwick had said to him at their first and only meeting all those years ago? ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, boy.’ He’d learnt that lesson the hard way when he was only seven years old. Frightened and alone, in a world he didn’t know and didn’t understand, he’d had to toughen up fast or go under. It was about time Miss DiMarco learnt the same lesson.
He reached Louisa’s desk, saw the bright spark of fury in those stunning brown eyes, the smooth olive-toned skin mottled with temper and the elegant chin poked out in defiance. He imagined fisting his fingers in all those glorious blonde-brown curls and kissing her into submission.
To resist the urge he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and kept his eyes flat and expressionless. It was a casual, predatory look that he knew terrorised his business opponents. Louisa, he noted, didn’t even flinch.
The adrenalin rush he usually associated with a particularly tough new business challenge surged through his body. Teaching this woman how to face her responsibilities might actually be more of a pleasure than a pain. He
was already anticipating the first lesson: getting Louisa to tell him what she should have told him weeks ago.
‘Miss DiMarco, I want a word with you.’
