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The Bride’s Baby Of Shame
CAITLIN CREWS
He knows the bride’s secret…… she’s carrying his baby!Dutiful heiress Sophie has never challenged her gilded existence, even agreeing to a convenient marriage at her father’s command. Until she meets ruthless Sicilian Renzo—one carnal night awakens unimaginable desires, and leaves her pregnant! When Renzo uncovers her secret, he’ll stop at nothing to legitimise his child—including storming Sophie’s wedding and stealing her as his own bride!
He knows the bride’s secret...
...she’s carrying his baby!
Dutiful heiress Sophie has never challenged her gilded existence, even agreeing to a convenient marriage at her father’s command. Until she meets ruthless Sicilian Renzo—one carnal night awakens unimaginable desires, and leaves her pregnant! When Renzo uncovers her secret, he’ll stop at nothing to legitimize his child—including storming Sophie’s wedding and stealing her as his own bride!
USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–nominated author CAITLIN CREWS loves writing romance. She even teaches her favourite romance novels in creative writing classes at places like UCLA Extension’s prestigious Writers’ Programme, where she finally gets to utilise the MA and PhD in English Literature she received from the University of York in England. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, with her very own hero and too many pets. Visit her at caitlincrews.com (http://www.caitlincrews.com).
Also by Caitlin Crews (#uc806acc0-6e75-589f-acc6-5a2d928abd40)
Undone by the Billionaire Duke
A Baby to Bind His Bride
Imprisoned by the Greek’s Ring
Scandalous Royal Brides miniseries
The Prince’s Nine-Month Scandal
The Billionaire’s Secret Princess
Stolen Brides collection
The Bride’s Baby of Shame
And look out for the previous Stolen Brides book Kidnapped for His Royal Duty by Jane Porter Available now
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Bride’s Baby of Shame
Caitlin Crews
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07226-7
THE BRIDE’S BABY OF SHAME
© 2018 Caitlin Crews
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to the memory of the best Christmas afternoon tea ever, with our editors Megan Haslam and Flo Nicoll in London, when Jane and I came up with the idea for this duet. And then had so much fun writing it!
Contents
Cover (#ue0889979-e156-572f-86f3-17ffbe8ce73f)
Back Cover Text (#uea020ddd-865b-5942-9319-5b2bcac9628e)
About the Author (#u5292aac9-5217-5a62-9f23-d31a989d647d)
Booklist (#u7cf63646-fab3-5cdc-86d6-d2118f3949a1)
Title Page (#uc5ef5f14-e3e5-5b58-9b88-ee686baf7624)
Copyright (#ue91cad9d-48fc-544b-91ad-f80e32ef1651)
Dedication (#uc16e0366-c73c-5efc-8a34-ec74ce2afe1b)
CHAPTER ONE (#u8b6c4c26-e7bd-5126-bae7-731debbb6208)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5053b833-23bb-52ff-be9c-e14df00bfc06)
CHAPTER THREE (#udc0b0b51-ecb2-519d-b753-78a8eb9ce07d)
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 ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uc806acc0-6e75-589f-acc6-5a2d928abd40)
RENZO CRISANTI LOATHED ENGLAND.
He was no fan of great, sprawling London, choking on commuters and tourists and lumbering red buses wherever he turned. He disliked the countryside, oppressively green and ever damp. He preferred his native Sicily, its mountains and sweeping Mediterranean views. England was too dour and grim for a man who had gone from the colorful streets of his hometown to a career racing impossibly fast cars all over the planet.
He might have retired from racing, but that didn’t change the fact that he was a Sicilian. In his opinion, that made him the best of Italy plus that little bit extra—and it meant he was fundamentally unsuited to what the English called their summer.
Even on an evening like tonight in late June, the English sky was wringing itself out, much colder and rainier than it ought to have been in Renzo’s estimation.
He preferred his own small village in the mountains outside Taormina at this time of year. A warmer sea in the distance and a happier sun to go along with the sweep of all that history, with Mount Etna rising in all her glory above it all.
Instead, he found himself just outside Winchester, England, winding in and around rolling hills so far out into the countryside that there was hardly any light. There had been a towering cathedral rising up over the medieval city, but still, Renzo preferred the battered, ageless wilderness of the Sicilian countryside to all this manicured charm. He’d felt hemmed in as he’d driven through the Winchester city center before heading out to the surrounding fields.
He wished he’d followed his initial knee-jerk reaction to this whole situation weeks ago.
Because Renzo had known Sophie Carmichael-Jones was nothing but trouble the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Steer clear, something had whispered inside him the moment he’d seen her, like a kick in the gut.
But he’d paid that foreboding voice no mind.
Renzo had been in Monaco for the annual motor race, though not as a driver. He’d stopped racing while he was ahead and still in one piece several years back, and had channeled his notoriety into a line of clubs, a few select hotels dotted around Europe, and a vineyard back in Sicily. And where better than Monaco to advertise to the very high-class, European clientele he hoped to serve? He’d been enjoying a drink with some friends when he’d happened to look up and see her.
She had glowed. That was the first thing he’d noticed, as if she’d walloped him with all that shine. She’d worn a metallic gown that had been perfectly demure on its own, but that hadn’t been the source of all that light. That had come straight from her.
Renzo was no stranger to beautiful women. They flocked to him and he, in turn, considered himself something of a connoisseur. But this one... Her dark hair had been pulled back with a certain insouciance, only a few tendrils escaping and showing the faintest hint of a deep copper beneath the lights. Her lips had been painted siren red, her brows were dark, and she’d worn large, gleaming earrings that Renzo had known in an instant were real despite their size. She’d looked elegant. Chic. Endless legs that suggested a certain coltishness and that lovely, inescapably aristocratic face.
But her eyes, brown and shot through with gold, had been so sad.
Their gazes had collided, there on the floor of the Casino de Monte Carlo. Renzo had lost his train of thought. Not something that often happened to a man who’d made his name and his first fortune thanks to his singular focus and steady hands.
He’d stood up from his table, crossed the floor, and found himself standing before her without knowing he’d meant to move.
He had been aware of everything about her, there in the middle of a crowd that he’d hardly noticed. She’d caught her breath. He’d seen color high on her cheeks. And he’d known that the chemistry he could feel, electric and intense, was affecting her, too.
It was insanity.
“You must tell me two things,” he’d told her, feeling as if they were all alone when he knew full well that they were not. That half of Europe stood arrayed around them. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to care. “One, your name. And two, why you are so sad. This is Monte Carlo, cara. Nothing but joy is permitted.”
“I’m not sad at all,” she’d said after a moment, and somehow, he hadn’t been surprised that she was English, though she’d spoken to him in the same Italian he’d used. Just with that unmistakable accent. “That would require far more emotion than the situation warrants. A better description is resigned.”
“You are far too young and much too beautiful for resignation.”
Her lovely lips had curved, and Renzo had wanted nothing more than to taste that red-slicked smile. Then, there. He wasn’t fussy.
“While you strike me as far too sophisticated for such idle flattery,” she’d replied.
Renzo had been in the grip of a fever. Looking back, that was the only explanation. He’d reached over and taken her hand in his—
And they’d both breathed a little heavily at the contact.
He’d been aware of his own heartbeat, intense and demanding. He’d seen her pulse, there in the column of her neck, drumming out the same insistent rhythm. He would never know how he had restrained himself from leaning over and covering it with his mouth.
It had been as if they’d made lightning between them, such wild electricity he marveled the whole of Monaco didn’t burst into flames. It was as if their skin could scarcely contain it.
Renzo had known then and there that he would be inside this beautiful stranger within the hour.
Or die trying.
“Let me try this, then,” he had said, casting aside his customary charm for the urgency the moment appeared to warrant. “I need you, cara. I don’t care who you are or what you had planned tonight. I want you. I want to taste every part of you again and again, until I would know you in the blackest night. I want to taste you in my mouth. I want everything—and then I want to do it again. And again. Until there’s nothing left of either one of us.”
“I don’t believe in immolation,” she’d said, though her voice was hoarse.
“You will.”
She had shuddered. She had swayed slightly on her feet. She shot a look over her shoulder, somewhere through the crowd, then had returned her attention to him.
He could read her need and better yet, her surrender, all over her face.
Renzo had wasted no time. He took her hand in his and led her to the private exit, where he could retrieve his car without any interference from fans or photographers. In moments, they’d been speeding away, up into the hills toward the villa he maintained far above glittering Monaco and the Côte d’Azur spread out below.
“I am Renzo Crisanti,” he had told her, because there was something in him that needed her to know him, whatever that meant. Whatever came next. “And, bellissima, you still haven’t told me your name.”
She had shifted beside him, all sleek lines and the quiet, humming intensity of her considerable beauty—so much like the cars he loved and handled the same way he intended to handle her.
With all his skill and focus. With all the acute ferocity that had propelled him to the top of his profession.
There was a reason Renzo had never had a crash. And he didn’t plan to change his record that night, not even for this mysterious woman who’d already had him tight and hard and greedy when all he’d had of her was a brief touch of her hand.
It was as if he’d never had another woman in his life.
“You can call me Elizabeth,” she’d said.
It was the first lie she’d told him, Renzo thought now, trying to tamp down his temper. But it was nowhere near the last.
He pulled his car over to the side of the road, near what looked like an abandoned old croft—or whatever it was they called their falling-down sheds in this part of England. He cut the engine and unfolded himself from the low-slung sports car, adjusting the ends of the driving gloves he wore out of habit as he stood there beside the vehicle and attempted to access his usual, legendary calm. The motor made its noises, as if protesting that he’d cut the drive short. The summer rain had let off, but the night was still cool. Renzo flipped up the collar of his leather jacket against the pervasive damp and checked his watch, impatient.
And perhaps something a good deal more intense than merely impatient, if he was honest.
Because he had a score to settle with the woman he was meeting here, off in the middle of nowhere, so late at night in a foreign country.
As if he was answering a summons. As if he, Renzo Crisanti, were so malleable and easily led he would travel across the whole of Europe for a woman he had already bedded.
