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With This Baby...
Caroline Anderson
Claire Franklin has been left to bring up her sister's beautiful baby. She's convinced that Patrick Cameron is the father, though he insists that's impossible. Secretly suspecting that his late brother might well be the little girl's father, Patrick still believes it's his duty to care for Claire and baby Jess…As he becomes a permanent fixture in their lives, duty turns to burning attraction for one–and besotted devotion for the other! All thoughts of bachelorhood are replaced by a dream of becoming a husband and a father. But everything is turned upside down when the truth about Jess's paternity finally comes to light…
“Want me to take her?” Patrick said, reaching for the baby, and Jess gave him a beaming smile as he lifted her from Claire’s arms.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose, and Claire grinned at him.
“I thought you were talking to me,” she teased, and suddenly the atmosphere between them became electric.
After a moment of tense silence, Claire turned away, a gentle tide of color sweeping over her cheeks, and Patrick drew in a quiet, steadying breath and stepped away.
“Did you sleep all right?” she asked, hastily filling the silence, and he groped about for something sensible to say.
“Um—yes, fine,” he said, and rolled his eyes. He sounded like a total idiot, which was hardly surprising, because, as he was beginning to discover, being too long in Claire’s company was enough to completely addle his brain.
Not to mention playing hell with his hormones!
Every woman has dreams—deep desires, all-consuming passions, or maybe just little everyday wishes! In this brand-new miniseries from Harlequin Romance® we’re delighted to present a series of fresh, lively and compelling stories by some of our most popular authors—all exploring the truth about what women really want.
Step into each heroine’s shoes as we get up close and personal with her most cherished dreams…big and small!
• Is she a high-flying executive…but all she wants is a baby?
• Has she met her ideal man—if only he wasn’t her new boss…?
• Is she about to marry, but is secretly in love with someone else?
• Or does she simply long to be slimmer, more glamorous, with a whole new wardrobe?
Whatever she wants, each heroine finds happiness on her own terms—and unexpected romance along the way. And she’s about to discover whether Mr. Right is the answer to her dreams—or if he has a few questions of his own!
The Billionaire Bid
by Leigh Michaels.
With This Baby…
Caroline Anderson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ud4a8d1ca-7a28-5eff-b163-e0f3c2c0f508)
CHAPTER TWO (#u6a5e8d1d-e4c3-5be6-9216-b865b68901d0)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5da97b68-6e4b-528d-86ba-37ef262f9bbe)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
‘NOT again!’
Patrick slammed the phone down and shot back his chair, narrowly missing the dog’s tail. Ever the optimist, the dog leapt to his feet, anticipating a walk, but Patrick shook his head.
‘Sorry, Dog, not this time,’ he muttered, snagging his jacket off the back of the chair and heading for the door. Still hopeful, those persuasive eyes watched him for the slightest encouragement, but Patrick lobbed him a biscuit and left him to it. This shouldn’t take long. It never did—although last time he’d felt almost sorry for the girl.
He shook his head to dismiss thoughts of last time from his mind, and headed for the lift. If this young woman thought she was going to be any luckier than the other one at slapping a paternity suit on him, she had another think coming. She’d have more luck with the lottery.
Patrick knew every woman he’d ever had an intimate relationship with—knew, loved and had remained friends with, furthermore—and no stranger was going to be able to hoodwink him into believing she’d had his child.
The lift doors slid open to reveal a young woman standing in the foyer with a screaming baby in her arms, and Patrick sighed inwardly. Was this a change of tack for the paternity punters? The last one had also come armed with a screaming baby—to wear him down, or tug his heartstrings?
Either way, it wouldn’t work. It hadn’t then, despite her haunted eyes, and it wouldn’t now. He was made of sterner stuff.
‘Mr Cameron?’
Well, that made a change. At least she wasn’t calling him ‘Patrick, darling’. He studied her for a moment, taking in the soft silver-blonde hair scooped back into a ponytail, the clear, challenging eyes, the too-wide mouth devoid of lipstick, the snug jacket that showed off all too clearly her softly rounded breasts and slender waist.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked, knowing full well that he didn’t—and for some reason regretting it. Stupid. She was just another money-grubbing little liar.
She shifted the baby in her arms and the screaming settled to a steady grizzle. Still rocking the infant gently, she looked up at him with those clear grey eyes that seemed to search into the deepest recesses of his soul and find him wanting.
‘No—no, you don’t know me,’ she said, and her voice surprised him, low and mellow and distracting. ‘You knew my sister, though—Amy Franklin. She came to see you a few weeks ago with the baby.’
Ah. ‘And I told her I’d never seen her before in my life.’
‘And I don’t believe you,’ she said softly, her eyes accusing. ‘I’ve got evidence—’
‘Excuse me—is that your car?’
They both turned and looked at his receptionist, Kate, who was pointing through the plate-glass doors. Right outside, and causing a chaotic traffic jam, a recovery truck was busily winching the remains of an ancient lipstick pink Citröen 2CV up into the air.
‘Good grief,’ he said weakly. It looked straight out of the 1960s hippy era. The tatty paintwork was smothered in huge psychedelic flowers, and as it was raised into the air the driver’s door fell open and swung gently in the wind, releasing a trail of paper cups and sweet wrappers that rained down like confetti on the man beneath.
‘How dare he?’
Thrusting the baby at him, the young woman turned on her heel and headed for the door, marching out with hands on hips and haranguing the unfortunate truck driver, arms flailing like a windmill as she gesticulated wildly at the dangling car.
‘Oh, good grief,’ Patrick said again, and, handing the screaming baby to his bewildered receptionist, he went outside, extracting his wallet and wondering what this little fiasco was going to cost him. Far more than the car was worth, without a shadow of a doubt, but any minute now she was going to land the poor guy one by accident and get herself arrested.
‘I’m sorry, this young lady was just trying to gain access to our car park, but the car stalled and she couldn’t get it going again. She’d just come in to call a recovery vehicle,’ he ad-libbed, shouldering her none too gently out of the way and stepping between them. ‘Perhaps I could reimburse you for your trouble…’
The man, burly and immovable, gave a dismissive snort. ‘Sorry, mate. Rules is rules. I have to remove it, it’s causing an obstruction. She’ll have to collect it from the pound—not that it’s worth it. I mean, what is it worth? A tenner? Fifty quid for the rarity value? Personally, if it wasn’t for the fact that you have to pay the fine anyway, I wouldn’t bother.’
Personally, nor would he, but, then, it wasn’t his car—thank goodness!
‘How much will that cost—this fine you’re talking about?’ she asked, elbowing herself back in front of him with a sharp dig in the ribs.
Not as sharp as her intake of breath, however, at the driver’s reply. ‘That’s obscene!’ she exclaimed, but he just shrugged.
‘Should have used a meter, love. Wouldn’t’ve happened then.’
‘But it broke down!’ she wailed, latching onto Patrick’s fabrication like a real pro. ‘You heard the man!’
‘And pigs fly. Look, love, I can’t winch it back down, I’ve done the paperwork and it’s more than my—’
‘Job’s worth,’ she and Patrick said in unison. The man’s face hardened into implacability.
‘It’s all right for you lot that don’t have to worry about money,’ he said.
Patrick sighed and rammed a hand through his hair, but his companion didn’t pause for breath.
‘You lot?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t bracket me with him! I worry about money constantly, and I haven’t got any to throw around—hence my worthless car! You can’t take it!’ And then, with a masterly touch of pathos, she added, ‘Besides, it’s got all the baby’s things in it—I need them! She’s hungry.’
‘Baby? What baby?’ The man eyed the car worriedly, and Patrick could almost hear her mind working, but then she took pity on him.
‘Don’t worry, I had the baby with me—but all her things are still in the car, you can’t take them away, I need to feed her.’
The driver sighed, clearly relieved that he wasn’t dangling a tiny baby in the car above their heads, and winched it back down with a resigned shake of his head. ‘Look, lady, I shouldn’t do this, but I’ll give you a minute to get what you want from it before I take it away.’
‘But I want my car.’
‘Just do what he says,’ Patrick advised her softly, eyeing the huge traffic jam that was building up behind the truck. ‘You can always get the car later.’
‘If I can find the money, you mean,’ she muttered. ‘And anyway, how am I supposed to get the baby home without a car?’
Patrick’s heart sank. Here we go, he thought, feeling the contents of his wallet slipping further out of his grasp with every second. ‘Don’t worry about that now. Just get your stuff.’
Just? Huh!
Five minutes later, the elegant marbled foyer of his empire was littered with a pile of junk which in total was probably worth less than the loose change in his pocket, and the Franklin girl was standing in the doorway with a ticket in her hand, staring dispiritedly after her vanishing car.
In the background the baby was still grizzling, and Patrick looked wonderingly at the pile of junk at his feet. Ancient trainers, a jumper that had seen better days, a ratty old blanket, half a dozen paperbacks, a briefcase—curiously decent and quite incongruous—and a whole plethora of baby stuff in varying stages of decay. He met his receptionist’s bewildered eyes, rammed his hand through his hair again in disbelief and sighed shortly.
‘Now what?’ he said, half to himself, half to Kate.
‘I’ll get a box,’ she said hastily, recovering her composure, and thrusting the baby back into his arms she abandoned him with it and disappeared.
Patrick looked down into the baby’s miserable, screwed-up little face and felt a surge of compassion. Whatever was going on, this poor little mite was innocent, and, judging by the feel of it, she needed a dry nappy and probably a decent meal.
‘Let me have her,’ the young woman said, and took the baby, cradling it against her shoulder and comforting it as if she’d been doing it all her life.
‘All right, sweetheart. It’s all right, Jess,’ she crooned, but Patrick wondered if it really was or if they were just empty promises.
No. Dammit, he wouldn’t fall for it.
The ticket the truck driver had given her had fallen from her fingers, drifting to the floor, and he picked it up and shoved it in his pocket. He’d deal with it later.
Kate came back with a couple of cardboard boxes and started packing the junk into them, and he crouched down beside her to help, just as the baby started to wail again in earnest.
Her hands stilled and she looked up at the baby with sympathy in her eyes.
‘I’ll deal with this lot,’ she said softly. ‘Why don’t you take Miss Franklin up to your apartment so she can see to the baby?’ she suggested, and with a resigned sigh he nodded and held out his hand to usher the young woman towards the lift.
‘I’ll need the baby seat and that blue bag,’ she said, and he scooped them up and led her to the lift, glancing over his shoulder at Kate still crouched on the floor.
‘Thanks, Kate. I owe you,’ he said softly. ‘Can you ask Sally to deal with my calls?’
She nodded, and he turned his attention back to the more pressing problem in front of him.
‘Come on, let’s get the baby sorted out and then we can talk,’ he said, reminding himself firmly that she was just a blackmailer, even if she did have a figure to die for and the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard in his life…
‘Right, now she’s asleep, let’s sort this out,’ Patrick said firmly, determined to take control of a situation that showed every sign of disintegrating into chaos. ‘As I said before, I don’t know your sister. I told her that when she came to see me, and I can’t imagine why she’s sent you now, because nothing’s happened since I saw her to change anything.’
She looked up at him, those extraordinary grey eyes filled with silent accusation. ‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘Everything’s changed, because three days after she came to see you, my sister died of an overdose, and I’m holding you responsible—for that, and for your child—so, you see, everything has changed.’
Patrick felt shock drain the colour from his face. That poor girl, so tightly strung, her eyes haunted and despairing, was dead, and her sister was here to take up the cudgels on her behalf. No wonder she was so determined, but despite her assertions nothing had really altered, at least not as far as he was concerned.
The baby wasn’t his, and never would be, and there was nothing he’d said or done that made him in any way responsible for the tragic death of that baby’s mother, however regrettable.
‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ he said, gentling his voice but with no loss of resolve. ‘If I could help you, I would, but it really isn’t anything to do with me.’
‘Nice try, but it won’t work,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ve got the photographs.’
His heart sank. ‘Photographs?’ he asked. She’d been saying something downstairs about evidence just as the car thing had intruded, but it hadn’t really registered. Oh, hell…
‘Yes, photographs. Intimate photographs—if you know what I mean.’
He did, only too well, and he winced inwardly, even though he knew they must be fake like all the others. ‘Anybody can achieve that these days with a digital camera and a bit of chicanery,’ he argued, but she wasn’t finished.
‘Photographs taken in your apartment here? On that sofa, in front of the window? In the bedroom where I changed the baby’s nappy? On your roof garden? Where and how would she have got those? Someone on your staff? Come on, Mr Cameron, you can’t get out of it. All it will take is a DNA test to prove it, and if you won’t submit to it willingly, I’ll just have to take you to court, and, believe me, I fully intend to win.’
He didn’t doubt it for a moment.
